


You Can't Handle The Truth

by Wind_Ryder



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A Few Good Men - Freeform, Anti-Polygamy, Barristers, Court Room Drama, Crime, Everyone is Shameless, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Islamophobia, Lawyers, M/M, Multi, Navy, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pro-Islam, Sex Trafficking, War Profiteering, discussion of sexual abuse of a minor, modern day AU, non-graphic discussion of sexual abuse, non-sexual relationship, royal navy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-11-10 20:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 103,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11134482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: James and Thomas are blinking at her with the dull early morning look of two men who very much want to go back to sleep. Miranda swipes her thumb across the screen, and pulls the phone to her ear.  "Hello?"It's Peter Ashe.  "Have you seen the news?" he asks, pressing on before she could say a word. "There are pictures in the paper.  Intimate ones.  Of you, Thomas, and James."  Her fingers tighten around the phone.  She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath.  Then, pulling it from her ear, she taps the speakerphone button."Say that again," she beseeches quietly.  He does.  He repeats it, and tells them more.  At some point in the night, a hacker released dozens of stolen photographs.Now, all of England and beyond were discussing how an MP of Thomas' reputation was actually gay, that a Naval Officer with James' CV was a home wrecker, and how Miranda was either the victim of her husband's deviations, or a slut begging for more._____Modern AU: In which Thomas, Miranda, and James are outed to the press.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfyne/gifts).



> This began as a plot bunny with my dear Elfyne, and then it quickly turned into a thing. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

They needed to get a power strip to plug in all their various phones and accoutrements.  On Thomas' side of the bed he keeps his and James' phone, a humidifier, and a laptop cord.  There's a night light as well, a porcelain ship with a yellow bulb on the inside that shines stars on the walls and ceiling.  Miranda's quite happy to have a power strip of her own on her side of the bed.  With just enough room for everything she needs for the morning.  Her iPad, her iPhone and her laptop are all plugged in each night, charging on their ports without worry.

Naturally, they turn their phone volume up when they go to sleep at night.  The stray email might come in every now and then, a few reports here or there, but the tone doesn't bother them nearly as much as one might think.  Miranda's never woken up to it before, at least.  Now, though, she's started dreaming of being attacked by a flock of emails in the shape of seagulls.  Flying like a swarm of bees and diving at her face.  She wakes up as another chirp bleeps through the room, and she does what anyone would do in her situation.

She groans, slaps a hand vaguely toward the offending device, and buries her head back under her covers.  The phone beeps again, and is shortly followed by the sound of a call coming in.  This time, she doesn't ignore it.  Muttering under her breath she snatches it off the nightstand and frees it from its power chord.  James hums to her right and Thomas shifts a touch.  They make a pretty picture, James curled onto Thomas' shoulder, right leg straddling Thomas' body.  She'd been quite content spooning James as well until a moment ago.

Now, both her lovers are blinking at her with the dull early morning look of two men who very much want to go back to sleep.  She swipes her thumb across the screen, and pulls the phone to her ear.  "Hello?"

It's Peter Ashe.  Apparently he'd already tried calling Thomas, and one glance toward Thomas' side of the bed reveals his phone is sitting next to the charger like the forgotten piece of technology it is.  Clearly Thomas had been distracted last night.  She can't bring herself to feel upset about it.  "Have you seen the news?" Peter asks, pressing on before she could even explain or pass the phone to the right person.

Any number of things could be in the news, but there's few that would warrant Peter waking them up at half past four to do it.  She tells him as much, and listens as he sighs.  Clearly disappointed in her utter lack of care.  James has started to sit up now too.  None of them will be going back to sleep.  They're the unfortunate morning types that are up once their up and so there's no point in bothering to pretend otherwise.  She plays with the thought of taking a warm shower and having a good breakfast somewhere.

Before she can even articulate it, though, Peter finally tells her the real reason he called.  "There are pictures in the paper.  Intimate ones.  Of you, Thomas, and James."  Her fingers tighten around the phone.  She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath.  Then, pulling it from her ear, she taps the speakerphone button.

"Say that again," she beseeches quietly.  He does.  He repeats it, and tells them more.  At some point in the night, a hacker released the stolen photographs of nearly a dozen celebrities and party officials.  But while the the hacker had handed out photos of various actors and actresses, the bulk of the attention had been given to Thomas and James.

All of England and beyond were discussing how an MP of Thomas' reputation was actually gay, that a Naval Officer with James' CV was a home wrecker, and how Miranda was either the victim of her husband's deviations, or the slut begging for more.

Thomas has his laptop open before Peter has even finished talking.  James hasn’t moved, but his face has bled dry of all color leaving behind only a greasy smatter of freckles that look like drops of blood marring fresh fallen snow.  Miranda already knows what photos there must be.  She'd found them beautiful when she'd taken them before.  Had cherished the grace and the allure of the photographs.  Had looked at them when she was alone and missing her husband and lover.

Now, cast against the vibrant pink of a webpage's banner with a comment box exploding with vile reactions and concerns, Miranda doesn't feel the same level of desire.  Instead she feels sick.  Thomas stares at the photos.  All three of them ignore Peter as he starts talking plans and possibilities.

With shaking fingers, Thomas plugs his phone back in the way it should have been.  And almost as soon as it draws 1% life – it starts to ring.  It's his father.  And he's not impressed.

Miranda wonders faintly if it’s possible to just roll over and go to sleep.  But then the Admiral calls, and James pulls himself out of bed to talk to the man.  Even standing in their bedroom, dressed in nothing, James can’t seem to manage a conversation with anyone in the Navy without being at attention or walking as if on parade.  

For what it’s worth, they had a few good years together.  And she’ll hold onto those memories for the rest of her life if she has to.  She already knows the peace and happiness she wanted was gone forever.  Alfred Hamilton’s voice roars over the phone at Thomas, and she presses a hand to her face.  

It’s over.

And it felt like they’d just begun.

***

For a man who couldn’t be bothered to come visit his son when he’d been rushed to the hospital with a ruptured appendix last fall, Alfred Hamilton appears in their foyer shockingly quick.  With him are his latest toadies who Miranda already feels bad for, and Rear Admiral Hennessey.  

After the morning’s phone conversation, Miranda had quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt.  Throwing her hair up with a clip.  James had showered and pulled on a smart shirt and pants.  Fiddling with his watch until Thomas clasped it for him.  Like Miranda, he hadn’t seen the point in dressing for the day properly.  If they need to go out, Madi Scott will come by from their PR firm and tell them exactly what to wear.  She’ll be fastidious in it and anything they put on now will be considered inappropriate anyway.  So why bother?

By comparison, Alfred is in a suit that must be worth at least a full year’s salary to someone.  His cane is a shimmering black rod, silver handle adorned to look like a bird taking flight peaking out from between his fingers.  His lips are pursed to such an extent they nearly touch the edge of his nose.  His beady eyes are disappearing amongst his wrinkles.  

Hennessey, however, is in his uniform.  On duty, despite the more personal nature of this meeting, and clearly unimpressed.  The sharp lines of his black suit are entirely opposite to the creases in Alfred’s face.  Not a wrinkle or crinkle in sight.  No blemishes of any kind.  Hennessey’s white cap is tucked under his arm, and he’s frowning in James’ direction with all the impassioned disappointment a man in Hennessey’s position could manage.  

The head housemaid, Melissa, fetches them all some tea, and they sit in rigid silence as it arrives.  Everyone glaring at each other, the wall, or their phones, as if there’s no need to talk.  The cosmos will simply let them all know each other’s feelings and there’s no need for any of this.  

Miranda glances at her phone.  Someone’s taken the time to zoom in on one of her favorite pictures.  Thomas splayed out with his hands on the headboard, knees around James’ waist as James fucks into his willing body.  Thomas’ back is arched, James’ head is thrown back in blissful abandonment.  Instead of the trust and compassion she had always felt when she looked at the photo, instead of highlighting the very great success that came from Thomas letting this happen, without fear and without shame, instead of the glorious smile that Thomas had when he truly let go, someone had zoomed in on the tattoo Thomas had above his heart.  

It’s a stylized three.  James has one on his chest too.  The zoomed image is blurred and cloudy, but it’s obvious the tattoos were meant to be matching.  Immediately there are threads and comments being set up in honor of the three.  Everyone wants to discuss what it means.  Why they match.  How come no one has noticed them before.  

The door closes behind Melissa once the tea is delivered, and as soon as it clicks shut — Alfred’s cane slams against the floor.  It echoes through the room, and even though Thomas hasn’t lived under Alfred’s roof for nearly twenty years, he still flinches at the sound.  James’ back straightens and he leans forward on the couch ever so slightly.  Ready to explode into action if he’s needed.  “How _dare_ you,” Alfred growls, and Miranda honestly cannot tell who he’s referring to.

Is it to her? His constant source of disappointment?  Rumors have existed for years that she’s an unfaithful wife who has taken many lovers.  Photos of her and James have not been uncommon in the gossip rags.  Alfred’s made his fury clear on that score many times.

Is it to James?  For revealing himself as not only the perverter of Miranda’s honor but Thomas’ as well?  For fucking Thomas in at least half those pictures of them so Alfred cannot even pretend that Thomas had been the _pitcher_ or _top_ or whatever slang he’d prefer to use?  For sitting at their side and not running away when he had the chance?

Is it to Thomas?  For disappointing him as always with this new form of disobedience.  For proving that Alfred really cannot trust him to not cause a scandal?  For not being the dutiful son filled with archaic messages of patriarchy and heterosexuality and nobility that Alfred had tried to beat into him?

Perhaps it’s all of them.

He says it again, just to get his point across.   _“How dare you?”_  Another alert appears on Miranda’s phone.  The photo of her in a strap on laying on the bed with James sinking down onto her dildo has just made the front page of some nonsense tabloid from another county.  “The vote is in a week and you—”

Alfred cuts himself off.  His rolls his fingers around the eagle handle of his cane.  The silver beak peeks out between his second and third knuckles.  A voiceless scream shouting into the morning.  Thomas had been like that as a child.  A motionless figure trapped under Alfred’s ruthless grip.  Screaming for someone to notice, but no one heard what he had to say.

The man finishes by spewing, “You have become a public _deviant._ You’ve disgraced our whole _family!”_  And that’s when Miranda sets her phone on the table next to her tea.  Alfred sneers at her and she doesn’t care.

“What are we going to do in response to the obvious theft of personal items?”

He practically spits at her.  “Theft.”  His face is turning purple from his rage.   _“Theft?!_ You’re worried about _theft?”_

“I’m concerned that someone stole our private property and published it online for commercial gain.”  She’s surprised her voice comes out as evenly as it does, especially as Alfred’s hands tighten around the eagle.  To her left, Thomas has been motionlessly silent.  His eyes haven’t left the cane, and Miranda wonders if it’s the same cane that left the awful scars on his back that some tumblr blogs were busy analyzing to a perverse degree.  She wonders, too, if that’s also what has Alfred so riled.  His handiwork is there for everyone to see.  Next to the photos of his son buggering a Royal Navy Lieutenant are photos of Thomas’ back.  Faded scars visible enough to see despite the pixelation and personal touch ups she’d done on her own.  

Thomas hated to look at them.  Incapable of finding peace in photos of himself because of them.  He is terribly shy about his body in that one way.  Unabashed when it comes to revealing his genitals.  Almost obscene when it came to unbuttoning his top.  He has no qualms of leaving a shirt unbuttoned.  But actually pulling it from his shoulders and baring his back?

Lying truly naked?

He plays games instead.  Turns off the light.  Keeps his back to the bed.  He shies away.  The photos with his back bared are some of the most treasured because he trusted them to be taken.  And now they’re all across the internet.  For everyone to see.  

The cane bangs against the tiled floor like a gavel.  Thomas’ hands tighten in his lap.  He finally raises his eyes.  “Well?” he asks his father in return.  Alfred’s face darkens to an alarming color indeed.  Miranda’s phone beeps _again,_ but she ignores it.  

“You’re asking _me?_ Have you nothing to say for yourselves?  For this perversion?”

“I love my wife and partner more than anyone else in this world,” Thomas tells his father boldly.  “If I could marry James I would do so now before all the witnesses on Earth.  My sex life is not the public’s concern, particularly as it is being engaged between three consenting adults in a fully informed relationship.  As there is no other comment I will be providing on that topic, I agree with Miranda.  What is being done about the hacker?”

Several things happen at once.  Alfred starts shouting _how dare you,_ again, Hennessey excuses himself to blow his nose in a folded handkerchief in a manner that seems suspiciously like he’s attempting to hide a smile, and James says the word ‘marriage’ like it’s a foreign concept he’d never encountered in his life.  

Thomas turns to James and Miranda does too.  “Why yes of course-” “-Didn’t you know?” They ask.  Because surely when Thomas suggested they all get a three tattooed on themselves it would have been obvious.  But James can be a little dense sometimes when it comes to matters of love.  

James is flushing a bright shade of red now,  fidgeting with his shirt sleeves.  “All that aside—” a knock sounds at the door.  

It’s shoved open before anyone beckons them in.  Alfred sputters loudly, and Hennessey simply looks resigned.  But Miranda’s terribly grateful, because Madi Scott has her laptop bag strapped to her shoulder and a phone in one hand.  She’s got notebooks pinched under her arm and an extraordinarily large cup of coffee.  

Behind her, John Silver limps in as well.  Bless his heart he’s got a box of doughnuts and a tray of coffee that will overpower the tea entirely.  Neither pay Alfred any mind whatsoever, passing out doughnuts and _scones._ Bless him, he has scones in that box as well.  John even kicks a chair from one end of the room to another so he could flop into it.  Coffee all around.

“Who the devil are you?” Alfred asks shortly.

“Lieutenant Silver,” Hennessey introduces with a sigh.  There’s some degree of ceremony that should have been adhered to.  Salutes and the like, but Hennessey hasn’t risen from his seat and John hadn’t bothered.  

Instead, the young man pops his prosthetic leg up onto the tea table, snatches a lapful of scones for himself, and takes an obscene gulp of his drink while Madi starts muttering about damage control.   _“You’re_ Silver?” Alfred asks even as Madi starts her report on what exactly transpired.  She looks like she hasn’t had an ounce of sleep.  

“I’m surprised you made it across town as it is,” Thomas cuts in, ignoring his father’s wounding comment.  Thomas had worked John’s case for two years and a major part of his win in the election had been based on the public awareness the trial had brought about.  That Alfred couldn’t even bother _pretending_ he recognized John after he’d been a part of their lives for five years stings more than a little.

“The traffic was mad,” John agrees.  “Should have seen the lines at Rex’s though,” he goes on, poking one of his scones in Madi’s direction judgmentally.  “She almost fought someone for the last mega soy milk latte.  There was blood in the water.”

He hasn’t said a word about the content of the photos.  Madi hasn’t either.  They’ve just gone on with their lives and their job as though they were subjected to pornographic images of their closest friends on a daily basis.  As if this were simply another blip in the difficult management of public relations. They don't act surprised, nor do they seem particularly bothered by it. Miranda wants to kiss them both, if only to scandalize Alfred more.  Instead, she settles for putting a hand on John’s arm and thanking him from the bottom of her heart.

A sentiment that is lost when Alfred all but roars, “Who is this?” when Madi starts to go over their battle plan for a response.  Madi does what Madi always does in such situations and turns to look at him with unflinching poise.

“My name is Madi Scott,” she says firmly.  “I represent Lord and Lady Hamilton and Lieutenant Commander McGraw, in regards to their public interests.”

“You’re from that blasted PR firm?  Where’s Taylor?  Thomas, where’s Taylor!?” The cane smacks against the floor again, and Miranda loathes how Thomas’ muscle stiffen once more.  She loathes how he releases a breath of air that sounds far too much like a hissing kettle with water freshly boiled.  

“Taylor was let go some time ago when we first came across Ms. Scott’s services.”  Thomas explains carefully.  “As she and John were friendly, we have all become quite close—”

“—Good God, are we to expect _more_ photos of this nature?  Between you and...and...and _them_ as well?” Alfred spits out.  

“If you did I promise the scandal could not possibly be worse than it is now,” Thomas retorts.  He’ll be upset later.  Fidgety and uncomfortable.  He’ll drink himself into oblivion when no one is around to stop him, and then he’ll sleep it off in misery.  

Usually he has time to prepare for meetings with his father.  Today he’s barely had an hour.  Miranda slips her hand into his, and ignores how her father-in-law sneers.  How utterly absurd.  She sees James place his hand on Thomas’ knee, and it too is taken hold of soon after.  “So the world knows I’ve had sex with James, and James has slept with my wife,” Thomas presses on.  “There are still millions of Syrian children who need our help.  Thousands of starving British civilians who are homeless and without care.  There’s still work to be done.  And I’m still the same man I was before.”

Madi hums from behind where she’s set up her laptop.  “Good,” she decrees.  “That will be in your statement.”

Still furious, but realizing he’s losing steam and his position in the face of so many outsiders who would judge him harshly for any words said in their presence, Alfred’s only choice is to turn to Hennessey.  “And what are your opinions on this, Admiral?”

Miranda watches two points at once.  John to her right, James to her left.  Both instinctively fixing their posture.  For a man who’s been out of the navy for over half a decade, John picks and chooses when to stand on ceremony.  He may not have saluted Hennessey earlier, but that doesn’t stop him from adjusting his seat now.  Eyeing the Admiral like he expects to be ordered to his feet at any moment.  

“No laws have been broken in the eyes of the military, but you will receive an evaluation to ensure that no secrets or classified information has been exchanged between the military and the Hamiltons.”  Which is exactly what they’d all come to the conclusion of many years ago.  Hennessey has the good grace to actually smile slightly, softening the blow.  “The same evaluation that was conducted when your initial friendship was determined during Silver’s trial.  In this respect, you will have nothing to worry about.  Though, do attempt to remain dignified through this time.  You _are_ still a representative of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

“Yes, sir,” James agrees with a sharp nod.  His fingers tighten around Thomas’ hand.  Miranda lets out a breath of relief, and then turns to Madi.  Alfred seems to be mulling over how best to continue with his obvious desire to destroy everything Thomas held dear, but he cannot proceed now.  Not with both Madi and John here.  Not with Hennessey marking himself as a hostile witness.  Not with Thomas so clearly getting support from both his partners.

They’re a united front at this moment, and Alfred may have much to say, but all of that is pointless.  “I have a plan,” Madi announces, and they get to business.  

Things will be different, but together — they’ll make it through.  


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred leaves when it becomes clear that no one is listening to him, and Hennessey departs not long after.  He wishes them well, sighs at James as though this is all very unfortunate, and Miranda cannot imagine a worse way of someone to come out than like this.  While Hennessey has given them the Navy's official position on the matter, it's obvious that he's not relayed his personal feelings toward James in any kind of satisfactory way.

James wilts when Hennessey leaves, pressing one hand to his face in an exhausted motion that has Miranda reaching around her husband's back so she can place a hand on his shoulder.  He tilts his head to touch her hand, and his cheek feels cool against her skin. 

"I'm terribly sorry," she tells him quietly.  It was her phone that had been hacked after all.  Thomas and James both had security protections on their phones, government and military issued.  Hacking into  _ their  _ phones would have been a much more serious crime.  But she runs a charity foundation, and has no place in the government.   _ Her  _ phone is just the standard iPhone.  And clearly, the cloud is not a safe place to be.

"It's not your fault," Thomas says quietly.  He stands up from their sofa, stretching out his back and collecting his oversized coffee.  He finishes out the dregs then throws it in the bin.  It's barely seven in the morning by now, but he's already opening the cabinet by his desk and pulling out a bottle of scotch. 

Outside, there's a throng of reporters who have made camp by their front door.  Everyone wanting the first picture and interview.  Miranda can't imagine what more they want from them.  They've already been entirely exposed to the press, taking pictures with their clothes  _ on  _ hardly seems as interesting.  Though perhaps that's the point.  The world believes they should be ashamed of these photos. 

_ Shame  _ isn't what she feels right now.  She's  _ enraged  _ by the betrayal, by the fact that someone thought to take something so pure and personal and make it a joke.  That these photos she had given no consent to being shared had been gifted to the world.  Stolen from where she'd kept them safe and flagrantly abused by those who wouldn't understand. 

More than that. 

She  _ hates,  _ with every fiber of her being, the way that Thomas is pacing the room.  The way James has been uncharacteristically silent and despondent.  He said once that he didn't care what anyone thought of him.  That, if asked, he wouldn't mind telling them the truth of his sexuality or his preferences.  But no one thought to ask him, and therefore he'd never had occasion to explain.  Had a chance to frame their love as love, and not the perversion that the puritanical minded people of the world insist on calling it.  People looked at them like James was merely a dear friend, and there's truth there.  He  _ is  _ their dear friend, and had been for a decade.  But he’s so much more than that.  

Will always be so much more than that. 

Madi mutters something dark under her breath in a language that Miranda doesn’t know.  But her tone is vicious and she starts clacking her fingers against her laptop’s keyboard with the kind of single minded ferocity that’s awe inspiring in it’s fury.  “What is it now?”  Miranda sighs.  

“John and James.”  No need to go further that that.  James slumps into the sofa miserably and Thomas pours two additional glasses.   _ That  _ photo they at least all knew about.  Thomas had discussed it in detail with both of them during the trial five years ago, and while the media may love it and enjoy bringing it up whenever the two sailors got together, set side by side next to photos with Thomas and James it once again it looks worse than it is. 

“I really hate that picture,” John sighs, forgoing a scone for a doughnut.  He gets jelly on his chin and needs to lick his fingers when the mess gets particularly obscene.  There’s a napkin somewhere and Miranda lifts a few of the bags up off the table to see where it might be hiding.  Ah.  Beneath the cardboard cup tray.  Snatching a few she hands them over and he thanks her around another bite of confection.  

Had no one put the picture in any salacious context it would have been innocent.  John, delirious after his surgery, lying in James’ arms in a hospital bed.  No one ever did find out who took the photo, a nurse most likely.  They probably thought the picture was quaint, two officers in a state of repose.  Then the trial started and such a thing was easily used for political and profitable gain.  It hit the tabloids before anyone ever knew it existed, and the rumors persisted until long after the trial’s end. 

Thomas had threatened to rain hell on the hospital when the leak first happened, but it hadn’t mattered in the end.  Anybody who had been in contact with John and James could have taken the photo and there was no proof to say who did it.  For such an innocent picture it had been kept shockingly under wraps. But it’s back again.  Years later.  Under a new headline reading  _ New Evidence Reveals Further Corruption in Silver Trial - Lt. Cmmdr McGraw Slept with Hamilton!  _

John’s biting at his hangnails, tugging strips of skin off his thumb and blowing them away.  “They can’t overturn anything, can they?” John asks as the scotch gets passed around.  

“No,” Thomas replies shortly, knocking back his drink and refilling it faster than anyone likes.  “Teach and Vane are guilty and will serve out their sentences uninterrupted.  As will every single member of their collective.  No appeal board will change that.”

Miranda hadn’t even considered  _ that  _ as a possibility.  But looking at the headlines now, it’s not hard to see where it could eventually lead to.  John’s rubbing at his leg, his fingers pressing into the top of the prosthetic absently.  He’s still so young.  

“An appeal board might not change it, but it doesn’t mean there  _ won’t  _ be an appeal,” John challenges.  Flashing lights blink from down the street and grow closer.  Already the block is filling to its brim.  Their neighbors are going to start calling to complain.  Absently, Miranda calls her office and lets them know she’s going to run a few minutes late.  Her secretary sputters when he hears her voice.  Not seeming to know what he’s supposed to say. 

Frankly, what  _ does  _ one say when they’ve been exposed to their boss’ sexual life in such an intimate way.  The only other thing Miranda could have done is lay the boy down and actually fuck him.  As it is, he’ll have plenty of material to work from in the interim.  

She ends the call and resists the urge to look into the next google alert.  “You’re still planning to go to work?” James asks.

“As Thomas said, there are still things that need to be done.  The world doesn’t stop because someone’s seen fit to share photos of me.”  Of them.  James looks like he wants to ship himself back to war as soon as possible, because at least war makes sense to him, where  _ this  _ does not. 

Thomas drinks another glass.  He doesn’t refill it.  “John, what’s your schedule today?” 

Their friend doesn’t even hesitate, “Whatever you need me to fill it for.” 

“Can you bring Miranda to Open Borders?” 

Miranda sighs, “Thomas-” 

“-Sure.” John smiles at her.  “I haven’t been by your office in ages, it’ll be nice to see Max too.” 

“She has work to do,” Miranda tells him, though she has an uncomfortable suspicion that all of their work is going to be geared towards damage control.  She needs to draft a memo.  And she needs to start seeing which donors will be pulling out because of the scandal.  “And I don’t need an escort, Thomas.” 

“You don’t need a crippled escort, you mean,” John accuses, and that is the exact opposite of what she means.  She scowls unhappily. 

“I don’t need an escort  _ at all,  _ Jonathan.” If he meant to irritate her, he succeeded.  She’s not in the mood to be played with at the moment, and he holds up his hands in defeat.  

Another three cars are coming round the bend and the noise outside is growing to an intolerable level.  She cannot imagine how she’s even going to get out of the driveway, let alone to work.  And she still doesn’t know what Madi intends for her to wear.  “I think taking John would be a good idea,” James offers from her left.  She feels herself losing this argument as well, and that’s quickly becoming her least favorite feeling of the day. 

“If I bring John, it will only spark more rumors.  Especially with  _ this,”  _ she waves towards the hospital photo dispassionately, “already on everyone’s minds.” 

Now is not the time for John to make a joke about how they could certainly take  _ more  _ photos if it would make things better.  He makes it anyway.  James growls at him and Madi smacks him upside the head without even looking up from her keyboard.  Thomas seems to be considering whether he should get his third glass of scotch, but decides against it.  Sitting down and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I have to get to Parliament too...” he sighs. This really couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time.  Though perhaps that’s the point.  “What other sensitive information was kept on your phone?” 

He doesn’t mean it as an accusation, but it comes out as one nonetheless.  She bristles unhappily and tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter.  That everything’s fine.  That everything will continue to  _ be  _ fine.  “Nothing relating to your work,” she says waspishly. 

Thomas is utterly predictable.  He licks his tongue and sways his head to the side, reptilian almost.  His eyes close and then he sways back.  “You purposefully misunderstand.”  She can feel an argument forming.  Feel how her heart starts pounding harder in her chest.  Her fingers tighten and she adjusts her position.  

“There’s very little to  _ misunderstand,  _ Thomas.  You have to go to Parliament, what other information is on my phone- the two thoughts are clearly connected and--”

“--Forgive the way my mind wanders, but I don’t give a  _ damn  _ about my work, I’m worried about  _ you.   _ Is there anything on your phone that you would not wish us to see?” Thomas has never been afraid of raising his voice, but it’s rare he does so towards her.  Even now it seems like he wishes to withdraw.  He doesn’t, though.  He stays there, coiled and tense, staring at her as though she’ll come to see the truth as clearly as he has. 

She’s not allowed secrets anymore.  The whole world will know them.  And there’s no chance that she’ll have anything left hidden by the end of this.  She bites her lip.  Tries not to lash out.  Fails.  “If I hadn’t wanted you to see them  _ before,  _ why would I be inclined to share them now?”  

“Because there’s a good chance we’ll find out from the Daily Fail any minute now,” John offers before Thomas can say a single thing.  It does what he intended it to do, in any case.  She knows that.  It redirects her anger from Thomas to him, keeping her from engaging in a fight against someone she truly has no desire to see hurt, and giving her a far more willing target. 

_ “Fuck you.”  _ He smiles, unharmed in every way.  James calls her name, but she’s disinterested.  She collects her phone and throws it at Thomas, watching him flail in a vain attempt to catch it.  It slips from his hands and clatters to the ground.  “Look for yourself,” she dares him.  Then turns on her heel. 

She wants a shower, and an escape, and she doesn’t care one bit about what any of them have to think about it.  She’s leaving. 

***

Madi is in her room when she’s finished with her shower.  The bed’s been made and the pillows fluffed.  Madi’s sitting on the end of it, leaning back on her hands.  Looking outside and breathing slowly.  She’s turned on the stereo, The Köln Concert playing just loud enough to block out the sounds of reporters arguing with one another outside.  

True to form, Madi’s chosen an outfit for Miranda to wear.  Even truer to form, it’s one of Miranda’s favorites.  A warm and soft sweater that is both demure and elegant.  White as snow, and silky smooth.  The black slacks and kitten heels are a nice touch, as is the selection of jewelry.  “Suppose I can run in those,” Miranda offers quietly. 

“It is why I chose them,” Madi confirms.  Because the reporters will follow her to hell and back, and that’s not including the endless civilians who may wish to share their opinion.  Thomas is beloved by his constituents.  She knew ages ago she was disliked by the majority of them.  But this would be all the proof anyone needs that she’s always been undeserving of their support. 

Miranda takes her time.  She blow dries her hair longer than she absolutely has to, allowing the heat and the wind to wrap around her and block out the rest of the world.  She dresses incrementally, letting the fabric slide over her skin like gentle laps of ocean waves.  She sits at her boudoir and looks at her makeup free face.  Feeling drab and bland.  

Madi approaches without a word, and starts applying her makeup.  “When did you find out?” Miranda asks.  Everything happened so early in the morning, that she’s at a loss as to how anyone knew anything so quick.  

“The photos leaked late last night, before John and I went to bed.  I received the first alert not long after.  There was nothing for you to do or concern yourselves with until the morning, and so we worked on assessing the situation from there.” 

“John helped?” She doesn’t know why it surprised her.  Ever since the trial, John has been nothing but loyal to them.  But it wasn’t his  _ job  _ to look after their reputations.  Madi was specifically hired for that position.  John caring is natural.  But actually  _ helping… _

“He’s been managing thirty different accounts on just as many websites, offering alternative narratives and changing the perception of the photos.  He stayed up all night with me.”   _ That,  _ Miranda can believe. 

John Silver has a knack for storytelling and multitasking.  He may have even found it fun.  Signing onto news sites and leaving comments, writing articles and complaining about privacy laws.  She’ll have to apologize to him later, but if she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t truly think he expects it from her. 

Still, she’s grateful when Madi tells her to close her eyes for her shadowing.  It gives her an excuse not to look at her friend.  To not feel ashamed for her actions.  “He’s not upset,” Madi tells her anyway.  “I think he thought it was funny,” she adds on. 

Of course he did.  He finds humor in strange places.  Incredulity in others.  Miranda’s never understood how John sees the world, though she’s grateful he even  _ has  _ an opportunity to do so.  Madi finishes the final touches on Miranda’s face, before turning and starting on her hair.  Her bangs are pulled to the side and braided, a clasp is selected with perfect assurance. 

If Taylor were still here, Miranda suspects he’d have had her dressed in something religious and proper.  A crucifix around her neck to show her piety.  Proper shame for her actions.  He’d made his opinions clear each and every time he discovered one of Miranda’s lovers.  Talked down to her time and time again, until Thomas heard him one day and fired him on the spot.  Somewhere in London, Taylor Morgan is laughing himself hoarse. 

“There will be other photos, you know,” Miranda tells Madi quietly.  Now that the hacker has released her personal photos, anyone else who has  _ any  _ other photos of her will feel so inclined.  Because they’ll be valuable now.  The celebrity photos are meaningless,  _ this  _ is political scandal.   _ This  _ is enough to ruin her husband’s reelection changes, and anyone with any political motive will be fully aware of that. 

It’s too profitable to not be aware.  

The re-emergence of James and John’s photo is proof enough of that.  God.   _ James.   _ He’s going back to the war soon.  He’ll be flying out at the end of the week, then need to return to his men surrounded by endless scandal.  The Royal Navy as a whole may not have any qualms with his sexual orientations, but that doesn’t mean individuals won’t feel inclined to make comments. 

And there will be comments.  Endless comments.  And James cares what his men think of him.  He worries about his appearance and reputation.  He frets endlessly.  The years John served with him he’d calmed somewhat, enjoying a friendly dialogue with his second in command.  But John’s out of the service now, and James had only  _ just  _ started discussing retirement recently.  He’ll have to go back to all that mess, and if he does retire it’ll be seen as an escape from the rumors and the  _ shame _ . 

“Who did it?” Miranda asks.  

“No one knows yet.   _ Gossip  _ had the first actual report of your relationship,” how kind, she didn’t call it an ‘affair,’ “but there’s no report as to who the source was.  The celebrity photos leaked to several other outlets at the same time, obscuring it only for a moment.  They were shuffled past relatively quickly considering their nature-”

“What? That it’s an actress exposing herself to her lover and not an MP’s wife fucking a naval lieutenant while her husband watches?” Bitterness, Miranda knows, will be her most common ally at the moment.  Madi offers her a patient expression and finishes with Miranda’s hair.  Stepping away to sit on the bed.  

“Something like that.”  She places a hand on Miranda’s shoulder and squeezes gently.  Meeting her eyes in the mirror, wonders if it’s possible to feel even worse about this situation.  “Thomas will be giving a statement in an hour.  I’ve given him the first draft, he’s making edits now.  Will you be providing an internal statement to your staff?”

She’ll have to.  Madi knows that.  Probably already has one drafted.  But Miranda doesn’t want to think about that now.  She doesn’t want to think about any of this.  “Why can the world not let us be happy?”

There’s no response Madi can give her.  So she doesn’t say anything.  Just leans down and hugs her tight to her chest.  It doesn’t solve anything, but it does make her feel a little better. 

***

Thomas is a vision in his suit.  He’s always been beautiful, but Madi’s done him well.  James isn’t in his Naval uniform, a decision made primarily due to the fact that it  _ will  _ draw more attention than it needs to.  Instead, they’ve put him in something dark and gentle that doesn’t hide his physique nor how intensely uncomfortable he is.  

Miranda descends from her room and finds John and James talking quietly to each other in the library, Thomas practicing his speech soundlessly.  He looks up when Miranda enters but the smile he gives her is brittle.  Wrong. 

Forced in all the ways that Thomas is bad at forcing things.  He doesn’t like acting and posturing, he’s a man who says what he means and means what he says.  If he’s angry, he shows it.  If he loves, he acts on it.  If he’s pleased, there’s no expression on earth that can match his glorious smile and the way he expresses his pleasure.  

Walking toward him, Miranda slides her hand in his.  Kisses him gently.  Whispers an apology he didn’t need to hear.  He tilts his head forward.  They stand there, brow to brow, and she wishes she had words to comfort him by.  

“What are you going to say?” she asks him, breathing in his smell.  Someone’s taken the time to make sure the alcohol’s been chased from his breath.  Dabbed him with cologne that has hints of spice and heat in the perfume.  She’s licked it from his throat on more than one occasion, tasting the bitter sting and reveling in how he’d shiver beneath her touch. 

“I’m going to tell them that I’m in love with another man, and that they can all go fuck themselves,” he informs her.  He’s lying.  Or rather, he’s over simplifying matters.  In the dark hours of the night, sometimes he’ll whisper his thoughts to them.  His dreams of building a future they can be proud of.  Of working in a parliament that does real  _ good  _ in the world.  

He’s a bit selfish like that.  Wanting everything he wants, and still wanting more.  He collects his lovers and his missions and he tries to balance it all. 

There’s a knock at the door, and it’s time. 

John squeezes James’s shoulder and carefully steps away.  Thomas kisses Miranda’s cheek and takes her hand.  James breathes deep, and falls into step behind them.  Uncertainty vanishing beneath the masking comfort of being a soldier.  He’s off to war, and he can face all his enemies.  No matter what they are. 

Thomas opens the front door and steps outside.  Miranda follows behind.  Flashbulbs go off.  Blinding in their intensity.  She needs to tilt her head down slightly to avoid the onslaught.  Stars already splattering across her vision.  Her husband tightens his grip on her hand, and she squeezes it back.  Takes a deep breath, and forces her head up. 

She leans her body close to Thomas’ arm.  They’ve practiced this.  It’s as natural to her as breathing and how to walk in heels.  The perfect wife, dutiful and loyal in public.  Only, they’re not that couple anymore.  They’re not the public face of heterosexual monogamy, and the roles they will be expected to fill have shifted.  James is standing behind them, not beside them, and with ease and grace, Miranda kisses her husband’s cheek and steps away. 

He watches her from the corner of his eye, shifting immediately when he realizes her intention. They gesture for James to join them, and immediately Miranda takes James’ hand.  Squeezing it tight.  His grip is far tighter.  

There are a few false starts.  So many questions are being asked that Miranda can’t even understand half of them.  The cameras are still going off, she hears her name being shouted through it all and a fit of anxiety starts clenching hard around her heart.  But eventually Thomas manages to get them to settle enough for him to speak.  

“I understand there are many questions,” he starts.  Charming and polite.  “But before we begin, I have a request to make of all of you.  It’s nearly half-nine, and already there’s been a great inconvenience on my neighbors due to the traffic.  Once we’ve settled our conference here today, I would urge you to disperse if only so we can continue at my office in town.  While I understand there’s a great deal of fascination in last night’s revelations, I don’t believe any of that matters to Mrs. Pinckney or her prized garden which is currently being trampled on.”  He gestures across the street where one of the vans has parked half on a lawn, in clear violation of the parking ordinances.  “I will be at my office for work as usual, and so will my wife and partner.  If you could give my staff and neighbors the courtesy they deserve during this time, I’d appreciate it.” 

The opener has a few people looking just slightly disconcerted, if only because Thomas is so very clever in his wording.  He has no intentions of displaying remorse for his actions, and chastising them for their own actions already sets the tone and tenor for the conference.  Miranda’s losing feeling in her fingers from James squeezing too tight, but she doesn’t dare let go. 

“The photos that you all were made aware of late last night were stolen from my wife’s cell phone without our knowledge, and sold to  _ Gossip  _ magazine along with several other person’s personal photos.  We were neither given the courtesy of a phone call, nor asked for a comment on the photos prior to their publication.  As the photos in question were of a personal nature, and not the property of the person who sold them, we will be seeking legal action against the individual, or group of individuals, responsible.”

A flurry of questions came in, but Thomas waited with his mouth closed and hand raised until the reporters slunk back to their starting points, silent and enraptured.  Voice recorders thrust forward so they can get the first soundbite.  Cameras rolling so it could be streamed live somewhere.  

“I have never given a statement regarding my sexuality as I have never believed it to be a matter of public importance.  My work in advancing the LGBTQIA rights and community relations has always been prominent in my platforms, and as a barrister I fought to ensure my clients suffering from hostilities regarding their sexualities were given the care, compassion, and justice they deserved.  My record on this matter is clear.”

He pauses for a moment, before glancing toward James and forcing a smile.  “My partner, Lieutenant Commander James McGraw, is a highly respected military man who fights and serves for this country every day of his life.  And my choice to respect him, his career, and his wish for privacy, is one that he and my wife wished as well.”  Turning back to the front, Thomas presses on.  “I am not ashamed of my relationship with James, nor am I ashamed of my relationship with my wife, or hers with James or his with hers.  The photos that you have all become intimately aware of were ones that I was pleased to have taken.  And ones that I never expected  _ you all  _ to become so intimately aware of in the first place.”

One of the reporters, a snub nosed man that Miranda has seen running her husband’s circuit from time to time all but leaps forward, shoving his microphone into Thomas’ face so forcefully it nearly punches him in the nose.  Thomas leans back a touch to avoid it, but his attention’s been sufficiently turned forward.  Rattling him from his prepared words as the man asks, “If you’re not ashamed then why didn’t you reveal it to the public previously?” 

“Because we don’t yet live in a country where my work in assisting refugees, building community ties, balancing the national budget, and improving the education of our children can continue without being wrapped in a narrative of my love life.  A love life which is wholly irrelevant to the people of this country and her allies.” 

“Don’t you believe voters should know what kind of education you’d be providing to their children?” Someone else shouts out.  It’s the question Miranda’s been dreading since the understanding they’d  _ need  _ to make a statement became fully formed.  Because Thomas isn’t the social justice angel that he’d been called so many times before, anymore. 

He’s a deviant in the eyes of his constituents and the world.  

James’ hand is squeezing down even harder.  True pain starts sparking along Miranda’s palm.  She bites her lip to offset it, heart pounding hard.  But unlike her, Thomas replies with a very simple: “They do, of course they do.  Which is why I’ve sat down with the heads of every school board in my region and drafted a proposal to help encourage math and sciences for young girls who are increasingly being turned away at higher levels in the field, and an improvement on the arts for all students.  Which is why I’ve been open and candid about the need for after school programming and international learning initiatives.”

The half beat of silence is all Thomas needs to plow forward.  He cites every article he’d ever written, every reference that had been in support of his various work in the communities that he serves.  He is an ocean of facts spewing a waterfall of information onto the hapless head of any reporter who thought that they could subvert his message.  It’s like a brushfire flaring along dry earth.  Once he’s started there’s no stopping, and he’s as precise and as analytical as he always is.  Unflinching in the face of their stunned attempts at catching him off guard. 

Glancing up at James, Miranda cannot help but smirk.  Cannot help but feel a laugh building behind her nose.  She doesn’t  _ snort  _ exactly, but it’s a near thing.  His eyes are crinkling at the corners and he finally releases the aching pressure on her palm. 

“But-you cannot deny that you have created a culture that encourages students to be gay.” It’s someone from  _ Gossip  _ themselves, and Thomas has no patience for it. 

“If, through my actions, I have stopped one person from committing suicide because they’ve received the care and consideration they deserve, then I will consider my work a success.  I’m in a polyamorous relationship with James and Miranda.  I was in one before I was elected.  I have been in one for over ten years.  The framework of my successes and failures were never put into the context of my marriage or relations with my partner in the past.  I don’t with them to be examined as such now.  Though for people like you, who steal and knowingly publish materials that were not consensually given-- I can understand how such a concept would be difficult for you to manage.”

***

Later, when Miranda’s in the front seat of John’s car, being driven to work, she checks her phone again.  Thomas’ attack against  _ Gossip  _ is being circulated without stop.  He’s an internet sensation.  Getting edited as a meme everywhere she looks.  

She might have even felt positive about it, if  _ Gossip  _ hadn’t decided to print a follow up article.  One pointing out that if Thomas had been in a relationship with James for ten years, then he’d been sleeping with him during John’s trial.  

She bites her lip as John glances over to her.  “You all right?” he asks gently.  

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him now.  Not yet.  Turning the phone over she slides it back into her pocket.  “We’ll figure it out,” she tells him, and she prays to whoever’s listening that Thomas is right, and there’s no chance for an appeal.


	3. Chapter 3

Five years ago, Miranda had been sitting at dinner with Thomas at their favorite restaurant in the city, when the Royal Navy called and told him that he was needed immediately.  And no—it could not wait.  He’d kissed her goodbye, paid their bill, and left to an undisclosed location.

On her way home, the radio reported that a massive explosion destroyed part of Northwood Headquarters.  Initial reports attributed it to an accident, but later it was described as a terrorist attack.  One man was already under arrest, another was dead, a third was badly wounded in the explosion, but he too was soon arrested.  All three were naval personnel.

The Navy needed Thomas to prove the ones they arrested were the culprits.  To ensure justice was done.  And when he’d finished, he’d not only ensured justice was done, but he found evidence incriminating one senior officer, two junior officers, and several subordinates who had all followed the chain of command and were found guilty under a court of law for the maiming and dismemberment of their fellow sailor, and inciting racial tension to encourage a war they were already withdrawing from.  And much to the Navy's initial chagrin, their two initial suspects, John Silver and Laith Muldoon, were cleared of all charges. 

The trial took two years to complete.  And it had started with Thomas leaving her at a restaurant in London, and returning home nearly a week later.  Pale as a ghost and with dark circles under his eyes.  He couldn’t tell her anything initially.  Couldn’t share the burdens of his mind, but he did tell her this: _I saw James at the hospital they’re keeping Silver. He wasn’t a patient.  He’s just a friend.  But.  God, Miranda--he saw what happened.  He was there._

Five years ago, before Miranda ever met John Silver or came to understand just who he was to James, Miranda made one simple request.  One request that she made knowing full well that Thomas was likely the best barrister that Silver could ask for.  That he would dog this matter until the answers all became clear.   _Let it go,_ she beseeched him.   _Ask someone else to do this.  It can’t be you.  It shouldn’t be you._

And when Thomas didn’t listen to her, when he took the case anyway, she had gone to James.   _If anyone finds out about you and him...if anyone knows--your friend will lose this case.  Any chance he has will be lost._

But James had insisted.  Thomas was the best, and John and Muldoon needed the best.

They took her to meet John Silver.  And she hated how it made her feel to look at him.  Hated how _obvious_ it was he need Thomas’ help.  Hated how she knew there was nothing more to be done.  Hated how she stepped back, and let everything happen.  Praying that no one looked deeper.  That no one thought about the conflicts of interest that were growing by the day.  How she _knew_ Thomas should have recused himself.

But he hadn’t.

He made sure no one knew.

And then Thomas won, and it should have been over. 

***

“Max!” John doesn’t run well.  He _can_ run.  His prosthetic is top of the line.  He just doesn’t run _well._ He still puts too much weight on his bad leg when he strides forward, still drags after him on the next step, foot piece flopping unnaturally.  There’d been talk of him practicing at one point, but that had fallen by the wayside.  

Now he hobbles at a slightly increased speed, arms wide and smiling brightly.  His curls bounce about around his head, becoming lost amongst Max’ own hair as she embraces him tightly.   “I have not seen you in so long,” she accuses him.  “Must I only see you in times of conflict?”

John kisses her cheeks with more affection than is strictly professional.  “Ah you know me, I’m always there when you need me, and always scarce otherwise.”  Miranda can only roll her eyes at the scene.

There’s a crowd out front, of course.  Taking photos of them as they hurried into the building.  John’s got a pair of oversized sunglasses on his face, sports star-like, and he’d held her hand as he led her inside briskly.  Even as he and Max start chattering away, Miranda takes a second to appreciate how true his sentiment is.

He has been staying under the radar lately.  It really _has_ been too long since she’d seen him.  Madi hasn’t been shy about talking about John.  She’s told Miranda about him almost weekly, whenever they get together for luncheon, Miranda will ask about her husband.  Madi always smiles and shows her photos of their time together.

Telling her all the tales of John’s latest cooking exploits and his time in the soup kitchen near her mosque.  He’s apparently quite the terror amongst the women.  They all want to adopt him and tease Madi constantly about what a good husband she has.  The kids drag him out to play games with them and he’s been letting them draw on his leg with washable ink so they can clean it off and do it again next time.

Miranda’s spent so much time living in Madi’s stories of him, she’s cannot remember the last time she saw John in person.  And it's been even longer that that since John’s been by the office.

Glancing awkwardly about the lobby, Miranda makes a quiet word of retreat and makes her way up the stairs.  It’s maybe a little mean, John doesn’t like stairs at all, but she’s too embarrassed at the moment to be caught in an elevator and Max can ride up with him.  They can chat about whatever it is they’re catching up on, and she appreciates the few minutes alone.  As it is, neither seem to take note of her disappearance.

She likes taking the stairs.  Likes passing the photographs of her accomplishments, reminders of the good work they’ve done.  Likes seeing success stories of missing refugee children found and reunited with their families.  Likes seeing images of her staff giving water to those in terrible droughts.  Giving food and medicine to those in famine and suffering from sickness.  Climbing the stairs to her office, Miranda lets her eyes her eyes cross over _good pictures._ Ones that make her feel like she’s accomplished something properly in life.

The thought carries her all the way to her office.  Past her secretary’s desk who jumps when he sees her and starts sputtering about phone calls.  She walks past him and closes the door behind herself without saying a single word, and leans against the wooden frame for a brief moment as the tears start coming once again.

Madi had the good sense to put a freeze spray on Miranda's face so her makeup won’t run.  But her eyes already burn badly, and there’s no distracting from the puffiness that she feels forming.  Stumbling to her desk, Miranda collapses into her swivel chair.  Dropping her head into her hands and breathing harshly.  

She has a photo next to her computer.  Of James and Thomas and her when they’d gone on vacation for their one year anniversary.  It’s such an old photo, but she’s treasured it all this time.  James hadn’t known what they were celebrating, had been confused when they’d mentioned their anniversary.  Had even said he’d thought they’d been married January 20th.  They’d needed to explain that, well yes — they had.  But James had become theirs on June 6th.  

Miranda doesn’t think she’s ever seen a man so happy in her life.  James had flushed so brilliantly, had not known what to say at all.  And they’d held him in the warm caribbean sun and given him all their love.  

A part of her relishes in the photo.  Grateful for a chance to see something beautiful and unharmed by the hell of the day.  A much darker part wants to tear it off her desk.  Wants to hide it away from everything.  Keep it to herself.   _This is mine and you cannot have it._

There’s a knock at her door.  Her secretary.  He’s biting his lip and shifting his feet and clearly not looking forward to talking to her, but she beckons him in.  “How are you today Dylan?” she asks with as much composure as she can manage.  

“Fine, fine, I’m fine!” He’s actually squeaking as he replies.  In his hands is a ream of paper.   He’s fidgeting badly, and he’s looking anywhere except her face.  More than once he lets his eyes travel towards her breasts, and Miranda feels like an object on display.  Some stone carved statue that’s been placed in a museum to be ogled at.  

Madi had Miranda wear this outfit because it showed no cleavage whatsoever.  It doesn't seem to have helped. Trying very hard not to let her irritation fill her voice, Miranda says Dylan's name, and gets him back on track.  “We’ve had _a lot_ of phone calls, ma’am.  And there’s even more coming in, and I’m not entirely sure what you want me to say to them so far?  Because some are getting very insistent and there are calls for interviews that probably should be answered, but you’ve got your meeting with Sacred Heart today and—”

“—Dylan.”  Dylan falls silent.  Good.  She doesn’t think she can manage his panicked tenor a moment longer.  She’s in desperate need for something calming.  Anything will do at the moment.  Splaying her hands on her desk, she takes measured breath.  “Are you capable of working for me today, or do you need the day off to gather your thoughts?”

There isn’t an immediate response.  He’s too flustered to answer.  He just keeps staring at her, like he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.  What he’s supposed to say.  That, is answer enough.  “Please take today, and as many days as necessary to consider whether you can continue to do this job.  You will, of course, have paid leave while you’re out.”  He doesn’t move.  His eyes drop to her breasts a gain, and his cheeks are flushing.  His lower lip dips between his teeth and then he glances toward the anniversary photo.  

“Is it all real?” he blurts.  His fingers are tightening on the papers.  Making them crinkle in the center.  He’s filled with nervous energy, and it seeps into every corner of the room.

Dylan knows James.  Met him at parties when James was off duty and able to attend.  They'd spoken and been friendly on more than one occasion.  Dylan knows that Thomas can interrupt all of her meetings.  He knows that if there’s a call from the Navy for any purpose, she will answer.  He knows that she likes her tea with cream and sugar.  That she’s fond of Agatha Christie novels and piano solos.  He gets her boxed chocolates for Christmas, and she buys him Manchester United tickets.  She always considered him a friend. 

“James is Thomas and my’s lover.” The papers fall from Dylan’s hands.  He sputters.  “Is there anything else you’d like to know?” He’s looking at her breasts again, even as he shakes his head and thanks her, awkwardly, for the time off.  He doesn’t even ask if she needs help or if she’s sure.  He flees.  Nearly plowing over Max and John in the hall.  

John’s clipped just enough to have him stumble, and Max catches him by the arm.  Steadying him as best she can even as she curses at Dylan.  Miranda stands up and starts to collect the dropped papers on the floor.  Blinking back tears and trying to regain control over her emotions.  She breathes in and out harshly.  

Dylan’s not the first friend she’ll lose over this.  But he’s the first one that hurts so far.  And she’ll need to prepare herself for the disappointment.  She _knows_ that.  But it’s so hard to do.  She doesn’t want to do it.

Feet appear in her line of sight, and then with a half hidden grunt, John lowers himself to his knees.  She asks, “Are you—”

“—I’ll need a hand getting up," he cuts her off.  "But right now? Right now, I’m exactly where I need to be.” He picks up the pages.  Not even reading them.  Just picks them up and makes a stack.  They finish, and she tells him Dylan’s gone for the day.  “I think I can manage the phones,” John tells her.  He gives her hand a squeeze.  “We can do this, Miranda.”

“Yes,” Max swears behind them.  “We can.”

Loyalty is hard to come by these days, but seeing it here: reflected in the faces of her true friends, is enough to give her hope.  She nods at them, and so the day begins.

***

With John entertaining himself by flipping through phone lines and leaving rude reporters on hold until they hang up, Miranda opens her email and starts answering everything that she can.  She creates subfolders to manage the load, and has Max working in tandem to organize and respond.  Questions relating to the scandal are quickly relocated to a folder for John to respond to when they’ve gotten the official statement prepared.  Anything that relates to donors is marked as a high priority and reorganized to the top of her list.  Meeting times that were scheduled previously are double checked to see if they’re still on and the calendar is updated.

Everything’s a mess.  Max should be working on arranging counseling for victims of human trafficking and sexual assault in the UK.  Instead, she’s reallocated two members of her staff to manage what _she_ should be doing so she can arrange Miranda’s emails.  “Idelle and Augustus can handle it,” Max tells her firmly.  

Even so, Miranda knows every part of her business.  She knows all of her department heads and all of their work loads.  She keeps their books and numbers and projects constantly flowing through her head at all times, and she _knows_ Max needs to be doing other things right now.  Their contact in MSHTU had informed them that there was going to be a breakthrough soon in a cell in south London.  Max should be there— “Idelle and Augustus can handle it,” Max repeats.

It’s a refrain that carries them through until lunch.

Lunch, which John informs them happily, arrives in two sets of delivered food. Both from the same restaurant, “The delivery boy was rather confused,” John says giddily.  “He half worried that someone had made a mistake and ordered twice.  It’s the same meal both times.”  He’s absolutely bouncing on his feet as he presents the fare.  

It’s from a Japanese restaurant just around the corner from her office.  One that she goes to every afternoon when she can get time enough away from her desk to actually go someplace.  If Thomas has a light day, or James if on leave, they’ll join her and they’ll share sushi rolls and tease James about his poor handling of chopsticks, and enjoy themselves for an hour amongst the maelstrom.

She always orders the same thing: two salmon rolls, two crabstick rolls, and two white tuna rolls. Edamame and miso soup as well.  And when she opens the delivery bags, she sees that’s exactly what she’s got.  Tears start welling in her eyes at the sight of it.  She hadn’t even thought about Thomas or James or if they had lunch or what their plans were.

“Here,” Max presses a set of chopsticks into her hands.  “You sit here with John, and eat your fill.  I will go and address the rest of these, and when I come back we will finalize the statement for the staff.” She gives Miranda’s hands a squeeze and then leaves them to it.

John’s positively giddy as he snatches some sushi rolls for himself.  Moaning in delight as he savors the flavor.  It’s positively indecent, and his delight cuts into some of the dark miasma that’s surrounded Miranda’s morning.  “Even during the trial, I rarely saw you despair,” Miranda tells him.  

Their interactions during the trial were sparse as it is.  John kept in a holding facility and treated like a terrorist, Thomas only able to provide brief updates without breaking confidentiality or trust.  Miranda sat in the courtroom behind her husband watching the events as they unfolded though.

His concern was always for his friends.  It always has been.  His loyalty is his strongest feature.  He would have pled guilty if he thought it meant keeping Muldoon from prison.  “There’s no point in despairing,” John informs her with a jaunty twitch of his chopsticks.  “Back then...I woke up and found out I was under arrest for trying to blow up Northwood.  I didn’t _have_ another choice in the matter.  Crying or raging at the world wouldn’t have done anything.  Begging for help and panicking wouldn’t have changed anyone’s minds.  Your husband saved my life.  Saved Laith’s life.  He’s a good man, Miranda.  Both he and James.  And if there’s anyone worth all this mess for—it’s them.”

“I _know_ they’re good men.”  She snaps a few edamame beans into her mouth.  Chews them for a time before swallowing and reaching for her cup of soup.  “But I hardly wished to share my relations with those good men to the public.”

Even as close as their family had come to John, she’d never considered showing him her photos.  Showing him how the man he loved as a brother looked in the throws of passion.  How her husband looked while he was being fucked from behind.  How she looked taking both her lovers at once.

“They don’t deserve you,” John murmurs.  He finishes the food she knows both Thomas and James ordered on their own.  Without coordination or thought, just trying to give her something good to hold onto.  Something she’d not considered doing for them.  

She knows Thomas won’t eat even if she _did_ order him something, but James might.  She writes something down and asks if John will order it for her, and he does.  Smiling as gently as he could.  “You’ll be all right,” he promises.

She doesn’t tell him that while sure, _she_ might be all right, there’s an every growing possibility that _he_ might not be.  And that feeling is getting stronger with each passing moment.  It’s on the tip of her tongue to say it, but she can’t.  She doesn’t want to worry him unnecessarily, and one article hardly means that anyone will believe anything.  

John leaves to go help her with her work, and she texts Thomas.   _Promise me that John’s safe._  He responds almost immediately.

_I can’t._

She tightens her grip on her cellphone, and sets it to the side.  Thomas doesn’t say anything more, and she doesn’t write back.  There’s nothing more _to_ say on the topic.  If the Navy decides to reopen the case because of impropriety then there’s nothing that they can do to stop it.  

Finishing her last roll, Miranda collects the garbage in the bags they came from and set them in the trash.  She turns in her chair and opens a word document.  Madi had emailed her a draft with several possible statements that she may wish to make for her staff.  She barely has a chance to read through any of them when Max knocks on her door.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Pastor Lambrick from Sacred Heart is here.”  She checks her computer clock and winces.  She had known that Lambrick had been scheduled to come in today, but she'd hoped he'd have the decency to cancel.  Clearly not.  Taking a moment to compose herself, she goes to her filing cabinet in order to retrieve Lambrick's folder.  “I’ve put him in Conference Room B.”  And from the look on her face, it’s clear this meeting isn’t going to be a pleasing one.

Max doesn’t like the Pastor.  Has called his own foundation to be a mockery of faith under the guise of charity.  Where they keep their costs low and are very willing to discuss the division of power, labor, and funds, Sacred Heart has a tendency to over inflate their margins.  An even greater tendency to say quote appealing statistics that encourage individual donors and sponsors.  

Sacred Heart’s reputation has always been positive amongst the people, though.  Their affiliation with Open Borders a necessary evil, despite Max’s distaste.  Thankfully, Lambrick didn’t need to discuss much with Max as her division worked outside Sacred Heart’s usual purview.  But Miranda had the great misfortune of needing to schedule several meetings a month to make sure their partnership was in good standing.  

This meeting had been scheduled for weeks, but she doubts their agenda will be the same as it usually is. 

Asking John to manage the calls while she’s out, and confirming he’s well, she follows Max to the conference room.  Tucking one stray hair behind her ear to make sure everything’s in place.  Max opens the door for them, and Miranda tries very hard not to roll her eyes at the Pastor’s sudden clumsy nature.  He’d been about to take a sip of tea, but the moment his eyes landed on her his hands fumbled and he spilt some on the table.  Sputtering, he makes an apology and fetches a napkin from the courtesy cart to clean it up.

Meanwhile, Miranda sits.  Places her folder between them, and dreams of a day where she doesn’t need to wonder if someone’s seen her naked before they’ve had a meeting.  If they’re imagining the lines of her body, the swell of her breasts, the shape of her thighs.  “Miranda…” Lambrick starts, flushing even more as he looks toward Max.  

Generally speaking, it’s standard protocol for Miranda to always have at least one staff member with her in all meetings.  It’s a rule that Thomas suggested ages ago.  “You always want someone who can corroborate your story,” he’d instructed.  “If someone tries to swing your opinion, you’ll want someone else there.  Two witnesses is best.”  And, because he has no shame whatsoever.  “Tell everyone the conversations are recorded, have them sign something before you even get started acknowledging that all conversations can and will be recorded.”

Lambrick’s signed his paperwork, there’s a security camera with audio visual capability fully functioning just over her right shoulder.  He asks if they could have a private conversation, and Miranda’s never been more grateful for her husband’s interference.  Max glances at her for guidance, and Miranda nods her assent.  “Please be sure to check in on Peter, I’d like to review the reports when we’ve finished here.”

Bidding them goodbye, Max makes a left out of the room and Miranda watches her head toward the head of security Peter Sandberg’s offices, where they’ll be ensuring that this conversation is _perfectly_ recorded for future use.  

With the door shut and no one left to interfere with their conversation, Miranda watches as Lambrick’s shaking hands pick up his tea once more.  He sips at it delicately, and she cannot imagine how much time they’re wasting here.  She has thousands of emails she needs to wrangle, and her company statement on events isn’t nearly finished.

“Terrible, what’s in the news these days,” Lambrick starts.  He spills more tea when he sets the cup down, and Miranda watches the droplets seek each other out to create one large droplet in right next to the cup.  Slinkling closer and closer until surface tension pulls it all in together, encircling the porcelain.  

“Yes, theft is, in general, quite terrible.”  She’s grateful he’s released his cup.  She’s not sure she can handle anymore accidentals spills.  Already she feels irritation forming behind her right cheekbone, throbbing beneath the skin.

“Theft,” he repeats.  Very Alfred Hamiltonian if she’s be honest with herself.  She almost says as much.

“Yes, theft of my personal belongings, I’m assuming you’re here to ask about our security measures at Open Borders and how it will relate to your interests?”  His mouth opens and closed.  Very close to a sputter, but he manages to hold back just enough to not _quite_ qualify.  

In the early days of their relationship, Miranda had told Thomas that she had no interests in living a monogamous life.  That while she loved him with all her heart, she simply didn’t want to restrict herself to one person when there were so many opportunities that she could have.  He’d pulled her close, kissed her with all the tenderness and honesty of a new love freshly born, and told her he wanted her happiness alone.  And while there had been other lovers, the occasional partner here or there who met her fancy, they were not nearly as voluminous as she’d thought they would be.

Perhaps it was Thomas’ willing and eager nature, but there was little she had an interest in trying that he denied her.  She found few reasons to stray far from home, and when she did, she whispered her tales in her husband’s ear and he reveled in each one.  

Then they met James, and her number of additional extramarital lovers nearly entirely vanished.  One or two, maybe, in the past ten years.  They’d completed each other in a way that no one else ever could.

But finding joy in the arms of James and her husband didn’t mean she wasn't  _fully_ capable of telling when someone wanted her.  That she couldn’t tell when a hint of interest here or a smile there could bring her into the bed of a lover who would worship her body.  Lambrick isn’t like Dylan, who stared at her breasts with open surprise on his face.  If anything, Lambrick's working himself up into a frenzy.

She wonders how many times he took himself in hand since this morning, looking at her pictures before he came to her now.  “There are concerns, of course,” Lambrick tells her.  He’s licking his lips.  Wants to say something, but isn’t sure how to phrase it.  

“I can assure you that such concerns are understandable, but there is nothing we hold to higher importance than the privacy of the people we work with and for.  We will be addressing all concerns as promptly as possible.  I’ve asked my staff—”

“—That’s not why I’m here.”  Miranda stops talking.  Lambrick reaches across the space between them.  His hand touches hers and she needs to fight to refrain from pulling away.  “Those pictures, Miranda...if you’ve been coerced….”

“Let go of my hand,” she asks.  His fingers tighten.  What crosses his face could be considered compassion.  Could be considered kind.  

“They held you down…” James’ arms had felt like heaven around her body.  Thomas’ legs framed her hips so well.  She’d shuddered and gasped as James filled her body, and she fucked Thomas with a strapon.  

James had squeezes her so tight, because anything less and she would have shattered - thousands of pieces fluttering away like butterflies escaping into the light.  She would have transcended and left the earth so perfect had been the feeling.  She’d needed him to hold her.  Needed him to never let go. She tells herself to breathe.  Repeats to Lambrick, “Let go of my hand,” because his touch is _not_ James’.  There is no comfort here.  There is no love.  

It takes a moment longer.  A moment where she needs to physically pull away with a jerking movement that finally sparks him into action.  He starts apologizing profusely.  Wipes at his eyes.  “You help all these people, and yet all this time—no one has helped you.”

“That is not nearly the same.  James and Thomas are my fami—”

“—So are so many of the people you help.  I’m sorry Miranda, but surely you must see that.”

“I consented to every single photo, to every single encounter.  I enjoyed being with them, and I have no intentions of ending my relationship with either James or Thomas.  And this conversation, Pastor, is highly inappropriate.  If your concern for me is strictly professional, I can assure you that the security around sensitive information at Open Borders will be assessed and reevaluated to ensure such sensitive information will not potentially face the same ridicule.  If you are concerned personally for me, then might I suggest your concern be toward the theft and not the content of the photos.  As the _content_ is not something I feel the need to comment on.  I will _not_  apologize for loving my husband or partner in the way we see fit.   _I_ am not the one at fault.”  Lambrick gapes at her.  And finally, he lets his eyes fall from her face to the lines of her body.  Finally, he gives in and starts inspecting her breasts through her clothes in the vile and unsatisfactory way men do when they feel they're entitled.

She lets him take his fill, and then stands.  Wishing him well.  He tries to call her back, but she declines.  Citing she has work to do that is of vital importance, and surely he understands?  He can see himself out, and she needs to leave.  Needs to get back to her office, and her emails, and John.

John, who sees her approaching and abruptly ends his call with whichever reporter who's begging for a statement.  John, who walks toward her with quick, hobbling, steps.  Who follows her into her office and shuts the door and lets her hug him.  Who wraps his arms around her and doesn’t say a single word about how she’s sobbing against his chest or cursing the world for its injustice.

“I run a charity dedicated to helping women and children who are victims of human trafficking, supplying food and medicine to those in need, and ensuring a stable transition from poverty to achievement,” she declares to John’s left nipple.  He rubs her back and lets her rail on.  “I interact with thousands of people a year whose stories are worse than mine.   _What right do I have to be upset?”_

He takes her chin in hand.  “Every right,” he swears.  “You have _every_ right to be upset.  What happened to you is yours.  Your emotions are valid.  Your feelings are valid.  Comparing your life to another’s doesn’t make your own problems meaningless.  Or should I be shouting at the world too?”

She tries to swat tears from her eyes.  Tries to tell herself to get over this.  Honestly.  Just get _over_ it.  But John doesn’t tell her to stop.  He doesn’t berate her her tears.  The phone is ringing, and it goes to voicemail.  It will look bad, but neither of them care.  Not at the moment.

She holds on.  And tries not to think. 


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the day goes slowly.  Every email feels like it takes hours.  Every phone call is another excuse for someone to talk down to her.  As if they have a right to an opinion.  As if her photographs are any of their business whatsoever.

Still, she made a company wide statement saying that her relationship is still a private matter despite its suddenly public presence and that it doesn’t have any impact on any decisions or directions Open Borders is going in.  If anyone felt the need to discuss this matter with someone from HR she’d be certain to allow such a conversation to transpire, and if anyone felt the need to leave because of it, she would not begrudge them their decision.

Before closing time, though, her head of security knocks on her door looking contrite.  “I’m terribly sorry to be disturbing you ma’am,” he starts gently.  Too gently for it to be anything other than a problem.  “But...your car was vandalized in the garage.”

She schools her breathing.  Tries not to let it show on her face.  She listens as the damage is described, but it’s nothing that she wishes to imagine.  Standing up, she asks him to show her, and Peter leads the way.  John stands as she passes, and she waits just a moment so he can catch up with them.  

He doesn’t say anything as they go, but she finds his hand slipping into hers, and together they go and stand in front of the car she’d bought just last year.  The one she and James had gone joy riding around the northern coast in.  The one she’d relished for its finery and comfort.  

Someone had written “SLUT” on the sides in permanent black marker.  A cock was drawn on one window.  A crude drawing of someone getting fucked from both sides was done on another.  On the boot, an arrow was pointing down to the center of two round circles.   _Miranda Hamilton was fucked here._

“We caught the culprit,” Peter assures her.  She nods absently.  John’s hand squeezes hard on hers.  Enough to make her look up.  Follow Peter’s gaze to the man hovering by a couple of police officers nearby.  It’s one of the front desk associates.  A nineteen year old kid who started working a few months back.  Samuel, she thinks.  

The kid’s in cuffs.  Whining, “It was just a joke,” then again “come on lady, it was just a joke.”

"Just a joke..." Miranda murmurs.  She feels like she's speaking apart from herself.  As if her voice is going on without her permission.  She doesn't feel connected to her body.  "We...we provide safety and security to victims of sexual assault, why would you think this is okay?" 

"They didn't want all them cocks up their muff though did they? And you did." 

She flinches.  John's hand tightens around hers.  “Miranda…” he murmurs. 

Her eyes flutter and she shakes her head slightly to the left.  “It was just a joke,” she says.  Then repeats it.  Looks back at her car and the kid and John, and repeats it again.  She raises a hand to her face.  Her head is aching so badly.  "I...I have no interest in pressing charges, officer."

John scowls, "Miranda—"

“John."  She meets his eyes.  Trying to will her thoughts to him.  He falls silent beside her.  He's angry and upset, but he falls silent at least.  "John, can you...can you call me a car, John?” she asks.  She turns.  Feels as though she’s walking through molasses.  The world around her just a foggy blur and she has to step through it.  Dragging one foot after another.  Fighting through the sludge every step of the way. 

John’s arm goes around her shoulders, and she should worry about the pictures it’ll cause.  About how his friendship will be misconstrued, because she’s a slut and a whore and sleeps around.  But she leans into his touch anyway, and he tells her Max gave him her keys, and they can leave now.

Max has a small comfortable little sedan.  An impala, blue with fabric seats.  She sits down.  She can feel the edges of her teeth in her mouth.  The way her skin wraps around the muscles on her face.  She’s had a pimple forming since dawn.  Just above her brow.  She wants to scratch at it, but wrings her fingers in her lap instead.

Her cervical vertebrae are crinkling and collapsing one by one.  The disks between them sliding into nothingness.  She wonders if her neck will just snap itself and they’ll be done with all this drama once and for all.  John settles behind the wheel of the car and he looks at her.  Reaches his left hand out to take her right.  “Do you want to go home?” he asks.

She shakes her head.  Words not coming just now.  She doesn’t dislike the idea of going home, but she doesn’t want to talk about this with anyone.  She wants to be someplace no one recognizes her.  Someplace where the first thought on everyone’s mind isn’t that they’ve seen her naked and fucking.  Someplace quiet.

He puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking spot.  She supposes that she should have asked how Max was getting home, but the words don’t come.  Instead, she leans her head in her palm and she hides from the world as they drive out from under the garage.

No one looks at them while they pass.  They’re not looking for a blue impala that’s seen better days.  They’re looking for something else, and John is shameless as he turns down the road and takes them away from here.

She watches the rearview and sideview mirror, but no cars follow them, and it feels like she can finally breathe.  Thought there’s a persistent ringing in her head that won’t stop and an all around otherworldly feeling that seeps into every part of her.

There was a time in Miranda’s life where she thought that there was nothing that could tear them down.  They’d created a beautiful castle filled with so many treasured memories.  And they’d guarded it with the stereotypes of the world.  No one questioned them for letting their dear friend Lt. Cmmdr James McGraw stay with them when he was on leave.  They were angelic to not let him fend for himself, poor bachelor that he was.  They were good Christians who attended church services and never dallied in anything other than what was prim and proper.  

Smoke and mirrors all.  That this didn’t happen sooner rather than later is a miracle.  Miranda’s head is burning, and she wishes she had something to take the pain away.  A paracetamol of some sort.  She really should have told John to take her home.  Thomas will be worried.   

Or perhaps he’ll be tied up in the office, incapable of leaving because he’ll be giving interview after interview.  She doesn’t want to go to an empty home.  Doesn’t know where James is right now.  Doesn’t even know if she’s in a position to comfort him.

The car stops, and Miranda blinks, frowning as she looks around.  She doesn’t actually know where they are.  “C’mon,” John encourages gently.  He unlocks the car and pushes the door open.  It takes him a moment to get his feet steady, but he does walk around the car and open the door for her.  She accepts his hand as he helps her out, and is still holding it when he leads her inside a brick building that’s got a sign out front in a language she recognizes but doesn’t understand.

“Is this your mosque?” she asks, feeling foolish.

He tsks at her.  “It’s the Islamic Cultural Center,” he replies.  He pushes open the door and holds it open for her.  She makes an aborted motion towards her hair, but he shakes his head.  “You’re fine, I promise.”

Still, she hesitates a fraction of a moment longer before following him inside.  She recognizes it, somewhat, from pictures Madi’s shown her.  Of John talking to children, crouching over books and tables and not paying attention to what’s happening around him.  Madi said he found comfort there, with the center and its various endeavors.  A family he’d not expected.  

The walls are painted a pale yellow, the floors a tan and speckled tile.  “You’re sure it’s fine?” she asks again as she catches sight of her reflection in one of the glass panes on the wall.  He frowns at her over his shoulder.

“Does it bother you?”

“I do not wish to be disrespectful to the culture,” she replies.  Frowning still, John’s eyes go up a touch.  As though thinking on his response.  His tongue flicks out as he turns and heads back the way they came.  He opens a door to his left and reaches inside for something, not even bothering to turn on the light, so familiar he is with the area.  He turns to face her not a few moments later, holding up a plain and simple cloth.  

Motioning with his hands he has her duck slightly toward him, and he drapes it over hear head and tucks it over one shoulder.  “There, are you happy?” he asks.  

“I don’t...it’s not about...I just wanted to be respectful.”

At this, he smiles.  Touched, perhaps.  He brings her hand up to kiss her knuckles and then tilts his head toward the hall.  “We’re not in a mosque, Miranda.  There’s no dress code here.  You can even keep your shoes on.”

“My shoes?” she asks, but he doesn’t answer.  Already continuing on his path, laughing enough to echo around the hall.  She hurries to catch up with him, much more at ease now that she feels she’s at least adhering to some unspoken rule.

Voices sound up ahead, and she bites her lip as John presses a door open.  It’s a great hall.  Somewhat like a gymnasium.  Tables and chairs sit scattered and there are children and families gathered.  In the back there is a long row of tables, food sets over burners to keep warm and there are plates and cups as well.  

A large group of men stand to one side laughing and talking to each other.  There are games being played down at the other end of the hall.  Miranda smells spices in the air, and also the sweet pull of something sugary.  Some kind of dessert that draws her eye immediately to cake of some sort.  She feels her mouth water, and almost loses track of John who is making a beeline towards the food table.

“Children come after school for their religion lessons, and when they’re finished they come in here for snacks and games while they wait for their parents,” John explains quietly.  He starts pointing out the food.  This one has meat, this one is vegetarian, this one is spicy, this one is not.  “We provide dinner for the ones that stay late, and often their parents will eat here as well.  Sometimes the Imam will speak, but this part of the night is relatively informal.”

He snatches a plate off the table and he fills it with food, pressing it to her hands.  He steals a roll for himself and she makes a distracted comment of him being a bread fiend while he laughs with his mouth full.  “Mama Nanny?” he asks as he approaches a group of women.  All heads turn, but Miranda's eyes are caught immediately by an ageless woman in a beautiful blue hijab.

It's such a rich color that Miranda is instantly envious, wondering if she can find other cloths in the same tone.  She doubts she’ll be able to look as majestic as the duly calledMama Nanny, however.  Set beside the dark hue of Mama Nanny’s skin, the cloth seems to transcend.  So unique are both cloth and woman, Miranda knows there’s likely no equal she could muster.

In her entirety, Mama Nanny is beautiful.  Her face is sharp and angular.  Her cheekbones protrude just a little.  She’s quite thin, but she wraps herself in a thick shawl and has a winter coat draped on the back of her chair.  She’s clearly eaten her dinner for the evening and her empty plate belies a strong appetite.  Her brow raises at John when she gives him a careful examination, and she’s teasing as she addresses him.

“It’s late for you to be here tonight is it not, John?” she asks him.  Her voice is heavily accented, but Miranda cannot tell wherefrom.  She’s not familiar enough with the various languages and cultures of Africa to pinpoint it.

John pulls out a chair for Miranda and sits beside her, still chewing away at his bread.  “It is,” he answers as he swallows. “But my friend here has had a rough day.”  He needn’t say a single thing more.  

Mama Nanny reaches out across the table and places her hand on Miranda’s.  “Well then, I wish for now you find some peace.”  Her face holds no recognition.  Her eyes bare no judgement.  She’s looking at Miranda and Miranda feels like she’s truly _looking._  No hatred, no suspicion.  No hidden motive.  

John’s still stuffing bread in his mouth, and Miranda turns her hand over to hold Mama Nanny’s.   _“Thank you,”_ she croaks, meaning it with all her heart.  Mama Nanny squeezes her palms with her fingers.  It’s the most comfortable she’s felt since four this morning, and her gratitude knows no bounds.

***

John’s clearly well liked here.  The kids run up and ask him to play with them, and he follows their lead.  He tells them stories and teases them by saying his leg gives him extra kicking power on the football field.  Miranda watches him for a while, listening to the sound of families coming together and exchanging in pleasantries.  Collecting their young ones from classes and waving goodbye to friends.

Well wishes are all around, discussion of the next religious service.  Mama Nanny discusses a new baking recipe for some cookies she’s been considering.  Another woman, Naja, tells them about her latest soap making enterprise.  Not a single person brings up the news.  Not a single person looks at her strangely.

Miranda had known that John had found comfort here after the trial.  That things hadn’t been perfectly smooth sailing from the beginning.  That he’d even found some measure of peace in his life after what happened is promising at least.  

Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, Miranda follows Mama Nanny’s directions to the facility.  She takes her time going there and back, admiring the decorations and the care that shines so vividly in every part of the facility.  One of the office doors opens down the way and she watches a few men exit.  They’re talking in one of the arabic tongues freely, gesturing with their hands and clearly enjoying themselves.

Black, brown, and white faces all working side by side.  It’s a nice thought.  One that is quickly replaced by surprise as she recognizes one of the men in the back.  He clearly recognizes her too, because he says his farewells to his companions and approaches her.  “Lady Hamilton,” he starts.

“Midshipman Muldoon,” she finishes.  She’s unsure of the protocol, but it seems fair enough to embrace him.  Something that he quickly returns.  “I haven’t seen you in years, how are you?”

“I’m well, I’m very well.  I’m surprised to see you here.”

“You can blame John for that...Thomas as well, he asked John to look after me today, and John brought me here.  It’s wonderful.  Truly, I’m ashamed I haven’t come sooner.  Madi was telling me about it, and I admit I kept letting other things get in the way.”  Muldoon hardly seems offended by her admission.  If anything he’s amused.  He just shakes his head fondly and promises her all is well.  

Gesturing back towards the auditorium, they walk side by side.  He tells her about the Center and John’s work here.  He admits they’re not as large or far reaching as Open Borders, but she shuts down that argument.  “We’re an international organization, and that means we don’t always have time for our own communities.  Here you can give long term specialized assistance to people who need help here.  That’s not nothing.”

A little girl lets out an outraged scream and they watch as a group of small bodies start chasing a boy about the auditorium.  Parents calling for order and trying to wrangle the rapscallions under control.  John’s on the floor, markers everywhere, letting kids do whatever they like to his prosthetic.  Laughing and waving his hand and calling out in the same language Miranda heard Muldoon speaking before.  She hadn’t known he spoke it too.  

“Do you have any children?” Muldoon asks.

If she did, she suspects the papers would have been calling for her child’s removal from her care.  Clearly she must be a bad parent if she practices such pervaded acts.  “No.  Um.  We don’t, we never...it’s never been a good time.”  It’s a lie, but it’s a polite lie.  One that doesn’t offend a man who works daily with the children of his community.  “And I suppose it’s for the best all things considered.”

Muldoon hums consideringly.  He starts rubbing his beard with a practiced motion.  Sliding his palm along the front while his fingers spread out to the sides.  He squeezes his hand as he gets towards the greatest girth, and then goes back to the top and restarts.  “Children or no children, if something horrible happens to one member the community suffers.”

“Yes well, I don’t have a community.”

“You have James, and Thomas.  And Madi and John.  You have me.  Can you truly think of no one else who is concerned for you?” Max.  Max and both Peters.  Hennessey, perhaps abstractly.  There are nameless staff members and assistants who had been pleasant and kind to her throughout the day, though their actions slipped by into the background.  Drowned out by the endless tidal wave of phone calls and emails.  “The world says horrible, awful, terrible things.  They make up lies about who you are, and what you believe in.  They tell you that you’re a monster and that you don’t deserve any forgiveness or remorse.  They tell you that you should behave like them.  That _they_ are who you should trust in.  That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

One of the little girls runs up to where John’s being surrounded and wraps her arms round his neck.  He hugs her back just as warmly before releasing her to her parents.  Waving goodbye as she goes.  

It’s strange almost.  Funny, she supposes.  Miranda bites her lip as a misplaced smile starts to form.  She knows it’s not entirely appropriate, and had she known what kind of conversation she was going to have here, she likely would have prepared.  Would have studied.  Would have made sure she had all her facts straight before uttering a word.  But Muldoon’s eyes are twinkling and he nudges her arm encouragingly.  “What is it?” he asks.

She flushes and shrugs.  Shakes her head.  “I’d always thought that...well...I didn’t think that your faith...was much approving of…um...”

“Promiscuity?” he suggests.  Then, with slightly more enthusiasm, “Homosexuality?” She’s not even sure she can describe the noise she creates in response.  A kind of whining yes that’s full of embarrassment and not even the least bit appropriate.  “There are homosexual muslims, Lady Hamilton,” Muldoon tells her.  “There are promiscuous muslims.  There are muslims who experience all kinds of love, in all kinds of ways, and it’s not my place or anyone’s place to judge.  And as someone who has been called a monster before, it’s certainly not _my_ place to cast judgment on those who live a life that is not my own.”

The last of the children are being rounded up by their parents.  Mama Nanny helps John to his feet.  Steadying him when his leg slides a little.  He thanks her politely, and they loop their arms together.  Both supporting each other as he leads her to the food table.  Miranda watches as they work side by side, packing things up and getting things together.  “He never converted, you know.”

Miranda blinks.  Turning back to Muldoon as he continues, “Oh, Madi and I tried, we aren’t ashamed to admit that.  He comes to prayer times with her occasionally, and is often here to help.  I think he just likes the work.  Likes doing something with his hands.  But...he never converted.”

“Why?”

For someone who clearly spends so much time with the community, it’s almost a surprise to know that John never fully immersed himself.  “He doesn’t believe.  He teaches it to the children, just as the books and lesson plans suggest.  He listens to their parents and is sure to pass on the knowledge that we’re here to pass on.  But, he doesn’t believe in it.  After everything that happened at the trial, I doubt he’ll ever believe in anything.”

“You believe though, don’t you?  Did the trial not impact you?”

“It did,” Muldoon promises.  “It made my faith stronger.  It made this community stronger.  It showed the world that we were not monsters.  That we were innocent.  That we believed.  And we were rewarded for our faith.  That’s something that the world cannot take from us.  Thomas Hamilton proved that we were good people.  Worth defending, and worth saving.  The newspapers can say what they like, and they will.  They’ll say it endlessly.  But when you _truly_ know something.  It doesn’t matter what anyone else says.  What matters is what _you_ believe.  He doesn't believe in this.  But he believes in something else.”

She cannot possibly think what.  But he's looking at her like she should know.  Encouraging her to find out.  

The food is getting put back into the kitchen, John and Mama Nanny are turning lights off.  The women she’d been speaking to earlier in the night are departing.  Bags in hand.  John offers to escort Mama Nanny to her car, but she tells him she’s not quite so old as to need something like that.  Instead she goes to Miranda and taps both hands to her cheek.  Offering her a blessing before walking out towards the front door.   _"Fi Amanullah,_ Miranda, and have faith." 

It’s all so terribly practical and nice.  Miranda wraps her arms around her body.  Holding herself in contentment as John and Muldoon exchange pleasantries.  They tease each other like old soldiers do, and though Miranda only knew them as soldiers for a short while, she finds that she much prefers seeing them like this.  John with his hair grown out in dark brown curls, Muldoon with his full beard and his religious attire.  

They depart on good terms, and Miranda listens as John promises he’ll be back later in the week to help Muldoon with an event they’ve got planned.  “Thank you,” she tells John as they reach the car.  He’s smiling when he looks up at her.  “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“You needed a break,” he replies gently.

She did, and though she’d never have chosen this for herself, she feels strangely rejuvenated by it.  Though why, she cannot name. 

Driving back to the house, John flips to a jazz channel on the radio, and Miranda watches streetlights glimmer in the evening dark.  Cold rain water splashing under their tires.  She watches the pedestrians as they walk the sidewalks.  Families in their bright winter coats.  Dogs on their well worn leashes.  

Not a one of them look her way.  Not a one wants to take her picture or ask about her relationship.  They each are living their own lives and worrying about their own problems, and the relief of it all is breathtaking.

The mob’s gone from the front of her house when they arrive.  Not even a few lurkers remain.  Eager to help, Miranda hurries from her door and meets John at his before he can fully extract himself from behind the wheel.  He thanks her charmingly, and she hovers as he gracefully ascends the front steps to get inside.

Thomas and James are already home.  Their voices are carrying on in the library.  Thomas cuts himself off as she shuts the front door, and soon she sees him standing there.  He looks exhausted.  “I’m home,” she greets, and her husband takes four great steps across the hall to her.

His arms wrap around her body and it is warmth itself.  Warmth and perfectly.  She hugs him as tightly as she possibly can.  Buries her face into his neck as he bends to embrace her.  She can hear James as well, standing and hovering.  Waiting for her turn.  Even if she can’t see him, she can _hear_ him fretting.  She waves him over as well, and is greatly comforted when she feels him wrap his sailor-strong arms around them both.  Kissing her head to whisper, “Welcome home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience on this update, I have been on holiday spending time with the person I'm writing this for and getting married to the love of my life. The past few weeks have been spent preparing and enjoying the company of my two best friends and celebrating every moment with them. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this, and updates should be returning much more frequently from now on.

Madi’s apparently sleeping in the guest room and John quickly excuses himself to go check on her.  James pulls him aside long enough to tell him that he should just spend the night as well.  There’s a frigid rain falling at the moment, and there’s no point in going out in a deluge if they’re going to be turning around and coming back in the morning.  John doesn’t bother arguing, just throws off a sarcastic salute and an ‘aye aye captain’ which earns him a fierce roll of James’ eyes.

From the comfort of her husband’s embrace, Miranda watches the camaraderie in peace.  There’s the faintest smell of scotch on Thomas’ clothes.  But it’s not strong on his breath.  Not so strong as to indicate he’s indulged more than he ought to.  He’s steady as he leads her to the library.  Keeping his arm around her body as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear forever if he parted for one moment.  

“John texted,” he reveals.  “Let us know where you were going and that you’d be late.”  Thomas is fussing over her.  He kneels at her feet when he’s finished settling her on the couch.  Easing off her heels and setting them to the side before running his hands up her arms.  Holds her hands.  He squeezes her fingertips, and gets as close to her legs as their bodies will allow.  A knight at the feet of his princess.  It's 

James closes the library door and makes her a gin and tonic.  She accepts it with thanks, but only takes a sip.  Pressing the cool glass against her head first.  Her skin tingles on contact and she lets the chill slide right through her body.  “I had Porter stop by Open Borders and pick up your car,” James informs dutifully.  “It’ll be detailed and fixed up by the end of the week.”

She doesn’t give a damn about the car.  Not really.  The car was just one more casualty in a long list of casualties that these photos have uncovered.  Sighing, she takes a much more meaningful sip of her drink before setting it to the side.  “Tell me about your days,” she asks.  Neither speaks up.  They just blink at her like particularly obtuse dogs.  Expecting to be pet for their obvious love and affection, but not very clever at performing any tricks.  She’s always had a soft spot for animals though, and cannot resist resting her hand against Thomas’ face.

Feeling how his flushed skin warms her hand, turned cold from her drink.  He’s perhaps a touch too warm.  It may be early December, but there’s hardly a need for every fire in the house to be stoked and roaring _now._ She can feel the heat coming from the fire in this room, and she felt it when she first stepped inside the house mere moments ago too.  

They’ll be sweating through their covers if Thomas keeps this up, but he’ll keep insisting it’s too cold and they’ll struggle through it as they always do.  He can be so difficult at times.  But it’s a fight they’re unlikely to win.  Thomas likes his warm houses and his sweltering rooms.  No amount of informing him that it’s easier to wear extra layers than to cool off seems to matter.  

“Jack may need to go to the hospital considering all the caffeine he’s streamlining into his body, but he’s managing the swings in the polls about as neuritically and professionally as he always does,” James offers for her husband when Thomas just continues to kneel there and soak in the chill of her touch as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright, saying absolutely nothing at all.  “And Thomas fired about twelve staffers.”

“Anyone we liked?” Miranda asks.  She’s not terribly surprised.  She’s sure they’ll all be losing more staff members by the end of this.  

Thomas tilts his head into her hand and she indulges him.  Runs her fingers through his hair. “Just that girl Janice from records,” he tells her as his eyes close in open contentment.  “She’s got a thing for _memes_.”

As brilliant as her husband is, he struggles to grasp rudimentary concepts at times.  Slang is not his forte and Miranda snorts indelicately as he attempts the word.  It comes out sounding french, and even James is trying to hide a laugh behind his hand.  Smothering it with a yawn as he sits beside Thomas on the floor.  Leaning back so he can rest his head on the couch cushions.  “What?” Thomas asks.  “What, how do you say it then?”

“Meeeem, like ream, only meme,” Miranda tells him.  

_“Why?”_

“I’m sure there’s a book on the topic,” James offers, still obviously trying not to laugh.  It’s a bad idea to get Thomas _too_ inspired by the idea.  Though Christmas is coming and Miranda’s certain she can find something on the topic.  They’ll lose their chance to tease him about it once he becomes a meme aficionado, but it might be a decent distraction.  All things considered.

Judging by the look on Thomas’ face, he’s obviously still trying to work out exactly what the etymology around ‘meme’ is.  Brows furrowed and temporarily consumed by the thought that he’d been wrong.  He doesn’t like being wrong.  About anything.  “How was the Navy?” Miranda asks James.

“I didn’t have to fire anyone nor did get my car vandalized so frankly I imagine it was far better.”  Sometimes Miranda hates that she’s attracted to brilliant minds.  Hates that they’re so good at manipulating or adjusting facts to fit the narratives they wish to portray.  James answers her with such a calm and steady voice that it’d be easy enough to ignore how he never actually answered her question.  

She wants to press, wants to find out more, but Thomas kisses her palm and finally shifts his position.  He steals a sip from her gin and tonic, and she’s enraptured by the theft.  Dizzy almost from the constant sway of emotions.  “I spoke to the police around noon today,” Thomas tells her, giving James the out he so clearly wanted.  “They want to speak with us tomorrow, I said it’d be fine…”

Usually he asks before altering her schedule, but she’s too tired to put up a fuss.  She understands, and she wants to talk to the police as it is.  It’s just the wall of work that’s been put in front of her that feels like she’ll never climb out.  She nudges her husband and he squirms to the side, giving her room to slip off the couch and lean against it with him.  

She rests her head against his shoulder, his fingers intertwine with hers in his lap.  James moves close and he wraps an arm around Thomas’ shoulder, his hand resting on the back of Miranda’s neck.  It feels lovely.  Warm and secure.  Even as warm as the room is, she longs for some cloth to drape over them.  They’re children playing in a blanket fort, hiding from the world, their castle so easily knocked to the side.

“Suppose when I lose the election I can always be a barrister again,” Thomas murmurs.  

He says it so calmly that Miranda almost wishes he wouldn’t.  That he would show some fire for this.  That he won’t concede.  She asks him, “Is it really that bad?” and his fingers tighten around her own.  He gives her one curt nod, and that’s that.  Miranda can _feel_ James’ pain like a physical thing.  Guilt building up as if somehow this is his fault.  “Will Drystone still take you?”

“After this?” he huffs.  “I don’t know.  Johnston gave the offer after I won John’s case, kept saying I’d get silk in just a few more years.  That was a political and legal _high_ point.  Now...I doubt they’ll want the public pressure.  Maybe they’ll be inspired by the possible diversity it will entail, but a barrister with legal troubles of their own isn’t someone they’ll want in their chambers.”

James’ fingers are rigid against Miranda’s neck.  His voice is strained, desperate even, “Can you start your own practice?  Get your own set?”

“I don’t have silk,” Thomas refutes.  “I can’t start a new chambers of my own without that, and I’ve nothing to entice someone to come in and act as head of chambers.  No clerk nor reputation other than a trial where I may very soon be accused of misconduct from.”

Miranda bites her lip.  “Has there been an official response to that?”  The answer is no.  But it won’t take long.  They all can see it now.  Thomas kisses her hand before releasing it, rotating his ring anxiously.  

James catches his hand.  Brings it to his lips to trail kisses along the knuckles.  Distracting Miranda’s husband from his restless fidgeting.  She knows her husband.  Knows how his mind spins, how his thoughts cascade like the thrusting of a waterfall against the rocky swell attempting to hold it back.  The dam breaking under the weight of its efforts, each thought a vagrant spray.  Squeezing through the barricade until they all come rushing out together in an undignified mess.

James kisses Thomas’ temples.  He guides Thomas forward so he rests his head against Miranda’s lap and she lowers her fingers to delicately massage her husband’s neck.  Humming a vague noise of amusement when Thomas moans at her touch.  A decadent noise that could be so out of place had they not all known each other so well.

Exhaustion nips at Miranda’s heels, and she leans back farther onto the couch.  Petting Thomas’ hair and rubbing his neck with mindless motions.  Soothing and calm.  Words fall by the wayside.  Raging against the world feeling meaningless after the endless hours of the day.  

With her eyes closed, Miranda cannot see James moving about.  But she can hear him.  Can hear how he cleans up the mini-bar.  How he’s setting the house to order.  Careful and practiced movements that he’s picked up from Thomas over the years.  Thomas likes this room in a very particular way, will stress if it’s not done right.  Few people ever manage it, and Thomas will still check it over once he gets up to leave, but James and she do come the closest to putting it straight.

The sounds of clinking glass and shifting furniture is a comfort in of itself.  A routine that she’s known for so long.  Books return to their proper positions.  Liquor is hidden back in their appropriate cabinets.  Click, clack, clink.  She sighs.  It’s like those rainforest ambiance soundtracks, meant to put one into a state of relaxation.  Only it’s the sound of their home.  The sound of peace and serenity and _them._

A hand lightly touches her shoulder.  A kiss graces her brow.  She opens her eyes and she meets James’ and she sees the love and devotion she always sees.  Only it’s mired by concern and uncertainty and sadness.  She abandons her husband’s blonde, _blonde,_ hair, and rests her palm against James’ cheek.  “Thank you for being here,” she says.  The words feel inadequate.  Wrong.  He’s lived with them for so long, that the thought that she must thank him for being in his own home is awkward.  Her mouth feels ashamed for simply having said it.  “For not leaving us.”  

Thomas’ head springs from her lap.  Anxiety leaping from his chest tangibly.  “Don’t go,” he begs, and James’ face is a heartbroken mess.  Miranda feels her own head starting to ache, and she wishes she’d phrased it better.  Wishes it hadn’t sounded like she’d expected the possibility, when she’d merely wished to say she was grateful it never existed.

“Where else would I go?” James asks uncertainly.  “You’re mine.”  They are.  And he’s theirs.  

“Come,” Miranda sighs.  She’s too tired to continue this conversation.  She’s too tired to deal with the day’s consequences.  She wants to sleep and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a while.  She wants to feel the heartbeat of her lovers as they pulse through the night.  She wants their arms around her.  She wants to kiss their lips and taste their skin.  Smell their scent, knowing they are with her.  Always with her.  Not torn away by petty politics and horrible articles.

Thomas stands awkwardly.  He twists his ring around his finger once, twice, three times.  On the forth he squeezes the top and bottom.  Pinching it as if he could narrow its loop.  He can’t.  But he pinches anyway, and releases it only to make his round about the room.  Trailing fingers over James’ work, and making finite adjustments that neither she nor James ever see.  They wait for him, and he joins them in a daze.  

Hand in hand, side by side, they ascend the stairs to their room and quietly begin preparations for the night.  Down the hall, Miranda imagines John and Madi already draped against one another.  Sleeping off the hell of a day they too have faced.  And faced for the benefit of Miranda and _her_ family.  Truly, they’ve been blessed.

Chest drawers open and day clothes are thrown into the hamper.  Dry-clean only on one side, regular laundry on the other.  Miranda stands nakedly in front of her vanity, examining herself in the mirror as Thomas excuses himself to change in the en suite.  Ashamed of his body in a way that he shouldn’t be.  In a way he hasn’t been in some time.   _Damn those photographs._

The clips in Miranda’s hair are removed delicately.  Set to the side.  She cleans the makeup from her face using wipes and creams.  She longs to shower and clean the day from her.  But exhaustion is leading her to bed.  She’ll wash properly in the morning.  

Catching sight of James loitering in her mirror she lifts her eyes to meet his, and smiles.  He approaches.  His hands slide down her shoulders and cup her breasts.  His lips meet her cheek.  Her neck.  He sinks to his knees behind her chair and holds her still.  In place.  His head rests against the back of the chair, and she can feel his skull pressing against her spine.  

There is nothing sexual in this.  She feels no rush of passion.  Merely the coarse familiarity and intimacy that only comes with those so deeply entwined with one another.  And Miranda wonders why a photo like this could not have been made public.  Logically, it’s simple.  She never photographed him in such a way.  

But the answer to the next question of _why_ is somehow more confusing.  It was simply too personal.  This, is too personal.  James holding her nakedly in her chair, trying desperately to remind himself and her that they belong.  His touch comforting and kind.  His presence wanted and so deeply admired.  She taps his wrist and he immediately releases her.  She slides to the floor and sits at his side and his arms welcome her in.  “Are you okay?” he asks, and it is this comfort that is for her memory alone.  No photo could portray such devotion.  

And suddenly she’s glad.  Let the world see them in their throes of passion.  They will never have _this._   _This_ is for her and Thomas alone.  “Yes,” she answers truthfully.  “Things could be worse,” she adds on in the end.  He snorts indelicately against her hair, and he kisses her brow once more.

Then, gently, he guides her to her feet.  He fetches her night clothes and dresses her like a serving boy.  Steadying her and humbling himself to honor her the whole while.  His sweet and gentle nature, so often hidden behind the gruff exterior of a Naval Lieutenant, shining now in the dark bittersweet hours of the night.

The en suite door opens and Thomas steps back inside their room.  Night shirt and pants firmly in place.  His eyes dark and hooded as he watches them finish.  “Bed?” he asks quietly.  Unnecessary but there even so.  Miranda pulls away from James and folds back the duvet and sheets.  

They climb inside and become a tangled mass of limbs.

She thought it would take her ages to fall asleep, but she was wrong.

Her spinning thoughts blinked out like a snuffed candle.  And she slept dreamlessly through the night.

***

The DI assigned to their case is a singular kind of man with a beady eyed expression and a firm twist to his lips.  He peruses his documents with the kind of arrogant amusement one gets when he believes himself superior to another.  John is slumped over an arm chair in the sitting room, sleeping as if he owns the place, and Miranda tells the DI she has no intentions of asking him to leave.  Even though her husband and James were both politely requested to vacate the room so as to allow them privacy to conduct the interview properly.

Miranda stopped believing that John was actually sleeping almost the moment the DI arrived.  But he makes a pretty picture of spoiled soldier boy spoon fed by the Hamiltons.  If it feeds whatever opinions DI Hornigold has of them, then she's more than content in letting it continue.  At this point, she has run out of her ability to stay polite and tactful in regards to her family life.  John and Madi had been nothing but faithful since this mess began, and Miranda has no intentions of denying whatever kind of support they’re willing to offer.

Since the moment she was hired, Madi became privy to the most sensitive aspects of Miranda’s personal life, and John's been James' best friend for so long it hardly even marks as strange.  Hornigold scowls and huffs.  He sneers in John's direction, but Miranda explains patiently that John's ordeal had been difficult enough years ago and the current trauma is unsettling for all of them.  Especially him.

"Are you suggesting that a soldier is more affected by a few pictures that have nothing to do with him than you are?" Hornigold asks with a sneer Miranda doesn't care for.

"I'm suggesting that he's my friend and that this is my house, and that I am not under investigation.  I'm a victim of a crime that you are trying to solve.  So solve it, and leave me to worry about the state of my personal life with my friends and loved ones."

They sit in silence for a moment.  Him looking at her, and her pretending he's not assessing every part of who and what she is.  She sips at the tea that's been prepared, and she pointedly does not look toward John Silver.  Preferring instead to meet Hornigold's eyes and dare him to look away first.

He does.

He reaches for the envelope of photos and hands them to Miranda one at a time.  She's seen them so much by now that she wonders if she could embroider them on pillow cases.  That could be fun.  She can only imagine sitting in a circle of women wielding her needle like a sword and spearing her image into view.  They'd all flush and mutter to themselves, and she'd smile innocently as she offered them one by one to the passerbys so eager to make a statement on her life.

"I wanted the opportunity to speak to you each separately, and in person, because I believe that the circumstances regarding the release of _your_ photographs differ from those of the other victims."  Of course they did.  Because nothing could be simple nor streamlined.  

“In what way, exactly?”

For the first time since they met, Hornigold actually seems slightly apologetic about what he’s about to say.  His tone shifts from accusatory and impatient to something almost bordering kind. “After extensive research, your photos were the only ones directly submitted to a news agency.”

Miranda needs to take a minute to consider.  Obviously various stations and websites picked up on the photo release rather quickly and articles burst onto the scene about them.  But from what she recalled, _Gossip_ had been the only one with immediate access on _their_ images.  All of the other photos, of course, had an article written about them and discussed ‘anonymous sources’.  But it took _Gossip_ longer to report on the other pictures, and they had been the first to discuss The Hamilton Affair (as it was being called).  

Hornigold clears his throat, and Miranda blinks.  Shakes her head slightly to look up at him and show him he still had her attention.  “I’m afraid I must ask you, Mrs. Hamilton...did you have _other_ photos of you and your...partners.”  The sneer has almost returned, hidden only by his impressive attempts at professionality.

“Other photos?” she repeats.  She looks back at the ones she’s already been handed.  The ones that have haunted her endlessly.

“Ones that were more recent?” he hazards.  She bites her lip.  Tries to consider the dates.  The timing.  “Your husband had mentioned that many of those photos were potentially from months ago.  Some as old as two years.”  Thomas would know.  He has a knack for remembering everything.  

Miranda taps her phone and starts to flip through her photostream.  It takes her time to find the ones that are on the desk before her, but when she does, she frowns.  Hornigold is right.  The most recent photo was from May.  There were several dozen that were taken after the fact.  Something she informs Hornigold of as soon as she discovers it.  

“So, you’ve taken new ones since.”  He waits.  As if it’s important.  “Why aren’t the new ones there as well?”  She feels her fingers tighten around her phone.  Her uncertainty rising.  She wishes, half desperately, that James and Thomas were here.  John’s still feigning sleep, but right now, she wants a hand to hold.  An arm to lean against.  Hornigold sighs, clearly thinking she’s a bit dim, and explains.  “The celebrity photos...the ones that were released online...they were all recent.  Within the past few months.  Last week even.”

She looks down at her phone.  A fairly provocative photo of James and her on the screen.  His fingers in her hair.  Her neck arched.  The ‘Miranda Hamilton is being abused by her husband and his gay lover’ crowd would have loved this one in particular.  She can see the red lines of nails that stretched along her hips and back.  Can still feel the sting as she looks at it now, phantom memories crawling across her skin.  

“Why were your photos taken from so long ago, when the actors’ were all recent?”

There’s an insinuation there.  Something sick and wrong that Miranda’s mind is refusing to form into a coherent thought.  “Mine were the first they did?”

“And they held onto this knowledge for months?” Hornigold asks.  He opens his folder again.  This time giving her the examples of the other photos in the leak.  There are dates written on each one.  All of them months away from the most recent of hers.  All in the same general two week time frame.  Far less copious than hers too.  A one off for one person, a couple from another.  None nearly as voluminous as hers.  Thiers.  

She feels something hot and angry beating fiercely from within.  There’s a two months span between the most recent photo that was released, and the next photo she took.  A two month span that still didn’t include the spree that the hacker allegedly took.  “I’d like to know all of the events that you attended during that time.  The names of all of your guests, and anyone who may have had access to your phone.”

It’s a lot.  Events fly across Miranda’s mind as she nods slowly.  Struggling to put them into words.  “There were so many, I don’t know them all I’d need to look—there were various functions.  Birthday parties, weddings.  Weekend events.  I went to Paris to visit Adele as well.  I’d need to check my calendar to know for sure.. _.”_

“...there is one other thing,” Hornigold says carefully.  “Mr. Hamilton and Lieutenant McGraw...both have access to your phone and personal computer do they not?”

That feeling is back.  Spiraling through her.  “There’s a possibility that your phone wasn’t _hacked_ , but rather someone really did _steal_ them.”

“What exactly are you suggesting, sir?” She can’t quite keep the ice from her tone.  Can’t quite keep the malice from building up.  Hornigold is impervious, however.  He merely meets her eyes with patient insinuation.

“Is it possible that James McGraw could have given the photos to the media to—”

“—No.”  She doesn’t want to hear this.  Doesn’t want to listen.  Doesn’t want to consider.  She stands up.  John’s motionless in the chair, but she doesn’t care about that either.  “James is my partner— _our_ partner.  He’s a part of this family and he doesn’t—he _wouldn’t_ do this.”

“If he felt that he was not being regarded as a proper partner in your affair—”

“—It’s _not_ an affair it’s a relationship.  We have a _relationship,_ so instead of coming to me and trying to get me to do your job, I suggest _you find_ whoever is responsible for this.  It’s not James.  It’s not Thomas.  It’s not me.”

Rage is starting to build in her fingers.  She wants to strike him.  Wants to be violent and cruel.  Wants to scream and rage.  Wants to tear him down and ask him just what on earth he was thinking by suggesting such a thing.  He doesn’t understand.  

“Find your hacker or your thief, Detective Inspector.  They live outside our home.”  With that, she turns on her heel and all but runs to the door.  No one is standing in the hall, but she doesn’t care.  She flees up the stairs to her room, stubbing her toe on one of the marble steps, and slams her bedroom door shut.

Leaning against it, she presses her hands to her face.  Trying desperately to hold back to a silent scream.  The idea that this person had been some internet guru hiding out in a bunker surrounded by cliches had been, while not a _nice_ one, but at least...a _better_ one than this.  That at least had the benefit of feeling impersonal.  It had just been someone just trying to get a rise.

One of those ‘celebrities don’t deserve privacy’ types she could abstractly understand.

But someone she knew?  Someone who was in her home?  Who physically downloaded her photos at some point?  Then sold them specifically to a magazine and who released them during a pivotal moment in the election?  It feels personal.  Violent.

Violating.

 _It’s not him,_ she tells herself firmly.   _It’s not him._

And then her mind whispers back, _then who is it?_

And her tears begin to fall.


	6. Chapter 6

“You know,” John says, wagging a chip in Miranda’s direction, “If I was going to steal intimate photos of you and put them on the internet, I’d have at least asked you for money first.”  They’re sitting in an unkempt bar two hours outside of London, greasy fish and chips lain out in front of them.  Miranda doesn’t care much for beer but she’s got a pint all to herself, and John’s already happily stated he’d finish it off if she wanted.

“At least you’re honest about it,” Miranda sighs.  

“I’m just saying,” he shovels a few more chips into his mouth and chews noisily.  Shamelessly licking oil and salt off his fingers and wiping his hands off on his pant leg.  He leaves a stain there and Miranda tucks her hair behind her ears so she can distract herself with something.  Looking out the window to gaze longingly at the English countryside.

She’d told her husband and James that she needed a few hours away from the city, and John had immediately insisted he’d come with.  All but jumping at the chance to go for a ‘joy ride around the country’.  She’d complained she hadn’t needed a chaperone, and he’d insisted that he definitely did, and somehow here they were.

John’s shameless in his pilfering of her untouched chips, and she doesn’t care at all.  Too busy tearing her straw wrapper into pieces after soaking in the condensation of her pint.  “How much would you have paid me?” he asked her then, waggling his brows as if it were a joke.

She very much wants to be mad at him, but at some point she’s just become too _tired_ to be mad.  She sips her beer and sinks lower in her seat.  Her bangs fall in her face and she feels like a mess.  Oil is seeping out of her pores and she needs a shower.  She needs a twenty-four hour spa with a deep soak in a fancy pond, and she needs to get back to her office because in less than a day she’s going to have to address a humanitarian crisis as Max becomes responsible for the rescued sex traffickers that the response teams have been looking for.

Her mobile has been silent in that regard, but she keeps waiting for the announcement letting her know that MSHTU has moved in.

John’s toes tap her foot.  “Come on,” he whines, dragging out the ‘o’ and making a ridiculous face.  “How much would you have paid me?”

“How much would you have asked for?” she asks.

“I don’t know, a million?”

“We’d have paid it.” There’s a tv playing football behind the bar and a few men are gathered in a group to watch.  They’re ignoring John and Miranda, far more interested in what looks like an old Manchester United or Liverpool game — she can’t quite tell from here who.  Chances are Manchester though.  There’s a flag poking up from behind the rack of booze.

John steals some more of her chips and she idly chews on a forkful of fish.  The last time she’d watched footy it had been a pick up game that James and Thomas had fallen into.  She’d gotten a text from Madi asking her if she wanted to cheer on some cheeky lads and she’d stood in a light drizzle and cheered as James captained their team of eight into a victory.

The press relished the pictures of Thomas playing football with some lower income kids.  They’d written all sorts of articles about the day, and Thomas had pointedly not given a single interview aside from laughing about the fact that it’d been good fun.  Madi released a statement for him instead, discussing his intentions and his work for lower income families and the need for improved parks that were safe for people of all ages to enjoy.

Thomas _liked_ playing football.  He _liked_ running around outside and sliding across the grass without a single thought towards the state of his knees. Last year he’d taken a solid hit to the face by a rogue elbow, and Miranda had to put makeup on to hide the state of the bruising while Madi fussed over making him look presentable on the floor.

But his efforts hadn’t been in vain and there’d been more progress in the parks since he’d started his efforts, and James enjoyed the excuse to teach some manners to the over entitled kids thinking he was too _old_ to play their game.  “What wouldn’t you have paid for?” John asks, and it startles her from her thoughts.  She drags her eyes from the television and blinks at him.

He’s a good goalie for James and Thomas.  He’s good with the kids in the park too.  He’s great with kids in general.  She wonders if he plays football with the kids at the Islamic Center.  “We’ve an account,” she tells him quietly.  “It was set up when we started or respective careers, and we keep a sum of reasonable amount inside for the provision of such things.”  She takes another sip of her beer.  Tries to distract herself with thoughts of John hobbling about with his lopsided run pointing at a ball and telling the kids to get after it.  

“And apparently it’s got at least one million—”

She sets her beer down on the table between them with a satisfying clink, cutting him off as she says, “Five million pounds.”  He blinks at her, mouth falling open.  He stuffs the last bunch of chips into his mouth and then wipes the salt off his fingers.  

Then he guzzles at his own drink, slides the back of his palm across his lips like a barbarian, and leans in close.  “Miranda, darling, I’m just curious...how offended would you be if I _did_ blackmail you?”

It’s perhaps the most honestly sincere someone’s been since this whole thing has begun and she lets out a piggylike snort that gurgles up her nose.  She does it again, and then a third time before she pitches over her hands and laughs into her palms.  John’s guileless blue eyes are blinking at her winningly.  “No I’m serious, what can I blackmail you for?  I’m sure there must be something torrid,  we could certainly do something with this.  I’ll even let you keep a percentage, between you and me we could smuggle quite the fortune away.”

Tears are prickling at the corners of her eyes and she wipes them with the tips of her nails.  “It’s already my money, John,” she reminds.

“You sure I can’t convince you to make off with it somehow?  We could run away with each other, can I blackmail you about running away with me before we do it? _Five million pounds?”_  Even in a whisper his voice sounds utterly perplexed.  Dumbfounded and shocked in all manner of inappropriate ways.

“That money,” she clears her throat.   “The _money,_ is meant for emergencies John.”

“I’m an emergency,” he informs her blandly.  She snorts again, shaking her head at his sudden expression of pure innocence.  He could charm a nun from her knickers.   _Honestly._ Shaking her head again, Miranda finishes her pint.  She sets it to the side and crosses her arms over her chest.  “What does one even do with five million pounds?” he asks her candidly.

She’s had wealth for so much of her life that the answer feels almost droll.  “Put it in the bank I suppose.”  She doesn’t even check her bank account these days.  Doesn’t know how much is in her checking account at any given moment.  She reviews her quarterly statements when her accountant prepares it, and she has a financial manager that manages her income and invests in the programs that have interests she believes in.  

She knows that Madi and John had never been _well off_ exactly, but they’re not poor by any means.  The Navy had offered a hefty settlement to John after his trial, and the government had done its best to sweep their shame in the situation under the rug.  No one wanted to see a civil case rise up and John had been so exhausted by the end that he’d just trusted Thomas to handle the details for him.

From what Miranda recalls, Thomas had secured a sum nearing £1.8 million.  More than enough to give John a comfortable life if managed and invested properly.  “What did you do after the trial?” she asks him.  

“With the money?” he asks.  He’s eyeing the remains of her fish, and she pushes it towards him.  It’s not really her thing.  She doesn’t eat food like this often, but every so often it’s nice.  This is nice.  It feels good almost.  Comforting.  But she doesn’t feel inclined to eat too much of it.  “I gave most of it away.”

“You gave it away?” She’s not sure why it surprises her, but his previously teasing look has turned shy and he focuses entirely on poking at her fish with his stubby fingers.  He chews his nails instead of cutting them.  Miranda can’t help but notice that they were torn at the edges and he likely bites them and tears them off without even realizing it.  

John hums.  Digging for a good solid piece and pops it in his mouth.  He wipes his hands again and this time settles back in his seat.  “Kept some of it, of course.  Used it to help pay off some loans ‘n things.  I didn’t have much debt, and I still have my pension.  But...I didn’t need that much.  So I gave it to the Center.”  There’s something almost tired on his face.  Lost and uncertain.  “It’s bad isn’t it?”

Miranda wonders how much anyone’s told him, but the thing with John is he likes hearing it from other people.  Likes collecting the stories and framing his narrative around them.  He probably already knows, but wants her opinion.  Whatever good that will do him.

“It’s not good,” she admits.  “But Thomas hasn’t been contacted regarding an appeal.  And even if there was one for the men who were arrested, John,” she takes his hand in hers.  He stares at it like it’s an unknown thing.  “You cannot be tried again.  You were proven innocent.  The charges against you were dropped.  You’re _not_ going to be punished for this.”

His smile is brittle.  “Not by the government.”  

And they both know, the government isn’t the only problem in this world that they face.  Sometimes, her people are even worse.

***

They drive back to London in a light rain.  Madi’s scheduled an interview for her, Thomas, and James at CTV.  They can’t hold off a sit down interview any longer, and if they get it in now Miranda has a chance to disappear back into Open Boarders while Thomas finishes out his campaign.

Miranda busies herself with reviewing the interview questions on her phone and memorizing the itinerary. After the hell that was this morning, she hadn’t thought she’d have it in her to have this meeting.  But strangely, she’s pleasantly surprised.  The little bar had been a dumpy institution and certainly not a place she’d expected to enjoy, particularly as she’d hardly touched her food, but she feels motivated at the moment.  Recentered in a way she hadn’t expected.  Focused even.

“What kinds of questions are they?” John asks as he makes a lane change.  She starts reading them outloud for him, quietly answering them and trying to get an idea of what Thomas or James will say.  James will hate every second of it, but he’s worked with reporters and media liaisons before.  

Usually they want to know his opinion on the war or what tactics they’re using to ensure their soldiers come home safe.  Somehow she doubts James ever considered answering _how big is your bed?_ on national news.  She makes a mental note to blacklist certain questions entirely.  

One question in particular catches John’s ear though and Miranda’s actually surprised.  She’d thought he’d already known.  But John perks up immediately and asks it right back to her with a leering kind of enjoyment that makes her roll her eyes heavenward.  “So how _did_ you three meet?”

“Thomas was still in the Navy,” Miranda replies, continuing to scan over the list.  Half curious as to why James hadn’t told John.  Perhaps it had never come up?  “There was a program to integrate soldiers back into the civilian world after their service was done, and Thomas had been asked to lead it as being a naval barrister stationed him permanently in the UK.  He’d requested the aid or an active duty sailor who could understand more what it was like being deployed, and James was assigned to him.  They worked on the program for two-- _three--_ years together.”

“How come I didn’t get that program?” John muses idly.  She knows the answer, but it’s impolite.  John had been in prison when he would have gone through it, and on trial not long after.  The court assigned psychologists and slew of medical staff assigned to him had been deemed sufficient and when he’d been released the government had been too embarrassed to put him through much more.  They gave him his discharge as quickly as they could and wanted to forget John Silver and Laith Muldoon had ever existed.  

He doesn’t ask the follow-up question that Miranda half expected him to ask.  He doesn’t ask when their relationship started, who started it, and what caused it.  All questions that Miranda will need to go over later in the afternoon.

“Do you regret it?” John asks next, just as he pulls into what looks like a parking area set aside for CTV guests.  “Not getting blackmailed?”

A part of her wants to say yes.  A _large_ part of her wishes she’d been given a choice in the matter and that she could just pay someone a set amount of money and be done with it.  But...there is a very small part of her that is almost glad that it’s been revealed.  A very, very, small part of her that relishes in the fact that she can hold hands with James in public.  Delighting in the knowledge that James and her and Thomas can finally stop pretending they’re so close.

“I regret it didn’t happen on our terms,” Miranda replies.  Because that’s what it is.  It wasn’t their _choice_ to come out.  It wasn’t their choice to say _this is the man we love, this is the relationship we want, you cannot shame us for how we feel._ “I love my husband,” Miranda tells John as he parks the car and turns off the headlights.  They sit in the quiet silence of the garage and just breathe.  “I love James.  And the world expects us to feel bad about it.  And I don’t.  I just...wish I didn’t have to explain that.”

They’d played with this idea before.  They’d sat in bed and imagined a world that didn’t care that Thomas wanted to be with James and Miranda.  A world where no one thought she was a whore or loose because she slept with two men.  A world where James couldn’t be shamed for his position in their extra-marital _affair._  

They had always dreamed of the perfect moment.  Thomas, retired from politics, and James, retired from the Navy.  She would have ceded control of Open Borders and would only be a vague overseer of the work that they did.  Their lives, in essence, would have been simple.  Uncomplicated.  

“I could blackmail you now?” John offers quietly.  She bites back a laugh.  “If you’d prefer.”

Patting his arm, she shakes her head.  “That’s quite all right John.” Then she steps from the car and smooths out her slacks.  Adjusts her sweater.  Pats down her hair.  

It takes John a moment or two longer to get out of the car.  He is always careful when he’s standing up to make sure his leg is in the right position before adding any weight to the prosthetic.  But he’s practiced standing smoothly and he does so once he’s confirmed everything’s well.

Closing the door behind him, he makes his way to her side of the car and offers his arm like a gentleman.  She loops her hand around his elbow and they make their way inside.  Following the instructions of the administrative personnel to the sitting area where James and Thomas are already waiting for them.

Thomas barely glanced their way when they walked in.  He had three staffers talking at him while he was paying attention to his pollster, Jack Rackham.  James looked, frankly, miserable as he stood to the side in his military dress.  Madi was coaching him on things to say and how to smile and he didn’t seem capable of forming a smile even if he wanted to.

Approaching James cautiously, Miranda looked him over.  His uniform is perfectly dry-cleaned with each button shiny and in tiptop condition.  His cap is tucked under his arm and his spine is so straight it might as well been made of rebar.  

There’s no point in asking if he’s all right, because he’s not.  But Miranda doesn’t have a chance to say anything because John’s already leaning in close to whisper: “Miranda’s given me the go ahead to blackmail you guys for your millions, hope you don’t mind,” into her partner’s ear.  Her cheeks go red but the comment does it’s job.  

James’ eyes slice to the left and glare into the side of John’s face and he grumbles out a perfectly frank, “You _shit,”_ that earns him a bright smile and an innocent response.  Some of James’ posture relaxes ever so subtly and when he meets Miranda’s eyes he’s not nearly as tightly wound.  “Blackmail, really?”

“He’s apparently an emergency.” She lifts a hand and touches the dark cloth over James’ arm.  “I thought you wanted to get away from looking like the Navy,” she murmurs.  He’s terribly fetching like this, but he’s lacking his usual confidence.  Instead there’s more melancholy she knows what to do with.

His expression twists into something grim, and before he can even say something John’s cursing and turning away.  James glances at him briefly before looking back at Miranda.  “I'm back on active duty.  Hennessey thinks it would be best if I returned to my ship sooner rather than later.”  The words hit harder than they have any right to.  She feels her fingers tightening around James’ sleeve.  Her head spins.  

The election’s in less than four days and...they’d _planned_ for this.  They’d planned for James to be home, and to celebrate Christmas with them, and to be here when her work pulled her away -- just in case -- and...she feels sick.  She ducks her head forward and rests her brow against his chest.  Breathing in the smell of her soap on his skin.  He wraps an arm around her body and presses his lips to her hair.  

She can hear Thomas arguing with Jack and some of the staffers are arguing louder and Miranda imagines turning them off entirely like a DJ at a club.  Siphoning their noise to some other plane of existence.  She holds James as tight as she can.  “How long are you going to be gone for?”

“Several months I’m sure…”

Translation: however long the Navy thinks it will take for James to stop drawing attention to himself by being in the spotlight.  They like their servicemen, especially such highly ranked servicemen like James, to stay _out_ of the spotlight as much as possible.  Turning him into an internet celebrity in the affair of the season is conduct unbecoming and they’ll be loath to let it go unanswered.  

They want to bury James in a cloak of discipline and good conduct and leave Thomas and Miranda to fend for themselves.  “This is the last interview I’ve been given permission to attend,” he admits quietly.  “Hennessey’s not...pleased...that I’ve agreed in the first place.”  

“Would he rather you denied it?”

“He’d have rathered it not happened at all, but there _is_ no denying anything at this point.  At least he understands that.”  

Someone, Hornigold perhaps, would have taken James’ words as an admission of guilt.   _There’s no denying it now._ Clearly, that means that James wanted it out in the open.  That he wants the world to see them as they are.  Miranda holds on tight.   _Damn them- they don't understand._

One of the PAs for CTV steps into the room and announces that it’s ten minutes until they need to be in places and Miranda grits her teeth as James kisses her head again.  He eases back a touch even as Thomas orders his aides to leave him alone and tells Jack to sit down before he falls down--elsewhere--and the room is _finally_ made quiet.

Madi and John are still loitering, though they’re doing a respectable job of looking aloof and disinterested in the current proceedings.  Miranda turns to look at her husband.  He’s wearing makeup.  There’s just a light bit of concealer under his eyes, something the camera will never pick up.  But it’s hiding dark circles and it’s making him look young and fresh-faced, and she wonders honestly if he’s even been bothering to sleep these past few days.

Her husband smiles a forced little smile at her, before gesturing to the others and beckoning them closer.  Their attempts at being polite no longer necessary at the moment. “Madi if you would be so kind...” Thomas sighs.

So Madi begins.  “You’re going to be interviewed in three fifteen minute segments with set commercial breaks between.  The first fifteen minutes will be a direct response to photos reveal, followed by questions regarding your relationship with one another.  The second fifteen minutes will discuss your various responses in regards to the political and business work that you’re doing, and the final fifteen minutes will be a set of questions pre-provided by viewers.”

They’ll be sitting at a round table.  Madi asks if Miranda got her mic already, and she shakes her head clumsily looking down as if it would magically appear.  But Madi’s already prepared, fetching it from where it had been waiting for her and explaining how it needed to be hooked into place.

They’re given a five minute warning and Miranda half feels like they’re rushing through this so fast that _she_ doesn’t even know how she feels or wants to feel.  She catches Thomas’ hand and squeezes it, wishing not for the first time that they could live lives where no one cared at all who they were.

The PA’s come back and starts guiding them into position and Madi quickly gives them a recap on how they should talk.  She tells them the best way to answer, she reminds them on how to sit, how to appear.  Everything is about appearances.  The order that they sit in.

If Thomas and Miranda are on either side of James then perhaps there’s tension between them about the status of the affair.  If Thomas is in the center, then he must be forcing himself on Miranda.  If Miranda is in the center than it could seem as though she’s being bullied by them sitting on both sides of her.  “Well then how exactly _do_ they sit?” John asks as he takes up the rear of their procession.

Madi licks her lips before replying, “Thomas closest to the interviewer, then Miranda, then James.  Miranda, you’ll need to touch James frequently to make it clear that you’re comfortable with him.”

It makes the most sense logically.  Of the three of them, Miranda has undergone stringent body language classes to help her when she speaks to victims seeking refuge with Open Borders.  She knows how to move and how to sit to alleviate tension.  “What makes this unique,” Madi sighs as they enter the media room.  People are running in all directions setting up cameras and getting lights in place.  Miranda can see where they’ll be instructed to sit.  Her hand slips into James’ on instinct.   _That_ wasn’t coached.  “Is the fact that you’re not denying the affair, you’re celebrating it.  So...celebrate it.”  Madi says it with a wince, but the words are true all the same.

True enough that before they go anywhere, Thomas meets hers, and then James’ eyes.  “Are you all right with this?” he asks James pointedly.  James can step out at any time.  It wouldn’t help matters, but at this point...can anything really hurt them more than those pictures?  

She squeezes her fingers around James’ palm, and he nods curtly.  “People should stand up for you more often,” he tells Thomas softly.  It’s a sweet sentiment.  One that Thomas doesn’t care much for.  He responds with a half hearted smile, and they’re called to set.

Madi accepts Miranda’s mobile and gives her a quick hug of good luck before they are hurried into position.  Introductions are quickly made for James’ benefit, Miranda’s already very familiar with Eleanor Guthrie and Dale Utley.  This isn’t their first interview together.  

From her pampered palace as a Media magnate’s daughter, Eleanor’s earned her reputation as a shrewd interviewer who likes targeted questions and curveballs.  She’s rough, but principled.  A “real” journalist who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.  She’s done more than a few tours in combat areas and she’s proud of each one of her reports.

She’s younger than Miranda, but she’s got a keen eyes for the kill.  While Miranda’s relatively certain that Eleanor’s never _actually_ killed anyone, she’s giving James a look that seems positively lethal.  Serpentine and pleased.  Shifting in her seat so she’s leaning closer to her partner, Miranda pulls her eyes away from the journalist and kisses the corner of James’ mouth.  “It’s going to be all right.” He meets her eyes.  Meets’ Thomas’ over her shoulder, and nods.

***

There are things they don’t tell you about doing On Air interviews.  Firstly, the sets are deathly quiet.  All the lights and the effects and the great sound introductions -- those are edited in later.  And so when you’re sitting in a studio, waiting to be asked a question, you’re doing so in the empty silence of a room filled with eyes looking right at you.

Someone calls sound, and then the teleprompter is rolled into position for Eleanor to read off of if needed.  She looks into the camera and gives her opening statements.  All the while, James holds Miranda’s hand in a perfect replication of the day they stood on the front steps of their home.

As if CTV knew that was the case, they put the picture up on the screen.  Eleanor discusses the picture and there’s a moment of silence as the video of Thomas’ speech is played.  His voice sounding distorted and strange in the studio, though Miranda’s certain it will be edited into perfect clarity for the TV.  This, is just for their benefit.  Microphones going off and on with perfect accuracy to ensure that only the best sound comes across the wires.   

Not all ‘live’ television is perfectly live.  There’s always a slight delay.  Just enough time for something to go disastrously wrong in real life and for someone to stop the feed before all of London (and presumably the world) is shown something that they don’t need to see.  It also gives the teams enough time to queue up the perfect footage necessary to get their sound bites in.  

Miranda hadn’t even asked when this interview would air, but she’s not too interested at the moment.  Eleanor says, “And now, for themselves, Thomas and Miranda Hamilton as well as Lieutenant Commander James McGraw,” and a camera turns their way.  Immediately Miranda’s face sparks a smile.  

It’s practiced and it’s perfect, the kind of dutiful smile that all politician’s wives are coached into learning.  Demure and dutiful and delightful.  D, D, D.  She holds James’ hand without the slightest bit of shame, and she looks to her husband with all the love in her heart before tilting her head towards Eleanor and thanking her for having them.  “We’re so happy to be here and have a chance to explore this part of our world with you.” _Lie._  

“I suppose that’s the easiest way to start this,” Eleanor begins.  She’s got a pen threaded between her finger.  It rests under her middle finger and over her ring and pointer.  When she talks, she moves her hands and the blue of the pen forms a beacon of where to move your eyes.  “You’ve been in this relationship for...ten years is it?”

“Just over, actually,” Thomas replies.  He’s got a pleasing tenor to his voice that makes him a comfortable man to listen to.  Not rough or abrasive, just a smooth jazz.  An alto sax on a soothing foggy night.  “We celebrated our anniversary in June.  It’s closer to eleven years by now.”

“That’s quite a long time to keep a relationship secret,” Eleanor observes easily.  James’ fingers tighten around Miranda’s.  “How did you feel about that?” She doesn’t ask it aggressively, she’s not trying to hurt them.  It’s a difficult question in an interview filled with difficult questions, and they don’t have _time_ to carefully manage this transition with a talk show host that will sit them on a chair and let them cry out their feelings.

Thomas has less than four days to convince people that he’s still electable, James is going back to war, and any second now Miranda’s going to be tied down at work.  There’s no _time_ for any of this, and perhaps that’s what hurts the most.  What makes this the most challenging thing of all.  This isn’t how they wanted it to happen.  

Thomas glances down the line at Miranda and James.  His tongue peeks out before he speaks, wetting the center of his lips.  He smiles faintly.  Then says, “When Miranda and I first got married, people would come up to us, and they’d ask: _so do you feel different now that you’re married? How do you feel now?_ And we never really knew how to answer.  We never felt different.  We were the same before, and the same after.  Nothing changed except now we wore each other’s rings and her last name matched my own.”

“In those days,” Miranda continues when Thomas takes a breath.  He cedes the floor gracefully and Eleanor leans in.  Somewhere, cameras zoom in and someone starts piecing together the best view to look at her from.  “I remember wondering if I _should_ feel any different about it.  We were married.  Surely we must feel _something._  But I didn’t.  I didn’t feel any different.  Neither of us did.  It was just what it was.  Best friends before, best friends after.  Nothing changed.  And I suppose what Thomas is saying is that it’s the same now.  How do we feel.  For me, I feel as though our relationship is the same as it always has been--”

“--It’s feelings toward being outed against our will that are more difficult to ignore.”  Miranda smiles at her husband and gladly takes his other hand.  They’re all leaning into each other a little bit.  Comfortable and at ease.  Except there’s nothing comfortable about this, and Miranda thinks she could be more at ease in a budget planning conference during a fraud audit.

They haven’t answered Eleanor’s question in the first place, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by her.  She smiles at them like she understands, but turns to James instead.  Expecting him to be the weakest link in their chain.  “What about you, Lieutenant McGraw?” Miranda feels him stiffen against her side.  “What are your feelings about your apparently decade long homosexual relationship with Thomas Hamilton being ignored in favor of the Hamiltons’ preferred heterosexual front?”

It’s an angle that Miranda had not been expecting in the least and she feels the muscles around her mouth try to go lax.  She manages to keep her smile firmly in place, even as she tilts her head towards her partner with the most caring and supportive, yet publically acceptable, expression she can manage.  

There are no shortage of things that James can say.  Not shortage of answers he can give.  But while he doesn’t have the years of political-wife acting lessons that she did, he wasn’t immune to the stories and lessons that Miranda’s told about them.  He’s not foolish, nor easily manipulated.  And for what surely won’t be the last time, James takes the blame.  “I was happy to not be the target of public humiliation and ridicule.  We made the decision when we became committed to each other that it was in our best interests to not tell the world of the circumstances of our relationship.”

“But it’s a lie isn’t it?” Eleanor pushes.  A picture goes up on the screen, and Miranda looks at it.  It’s been edited so that the sensitive parts are blurred, but there’s no mistaking the act being committed.  “You told the world that Thomas and Miranda Hamilton were straight, white, and privileged and you told a generation of young LGBT children and voters that the only way they’ll get anywhere in life is if they hide who they are and pretend to be straight.  Denying that part of themselves to cast _this_ image,” this time the picture on the screen is a very tasteful one of Miranda and Thomas at a charity event.  Her hand on his chest and his arm around her shoulders.  Smiling and happy.  “To cast _this_ image, as the only image that matters.”

“Tell me Ms. Guthrie,” Thomas interjects before James can snap back with something straight from his temper.  “You’re an outspoken member of the LGBT community, you’ve had girlfriends and boyfriends if I’m not mistaken.”  

If there is one thing that journalists _don’t_ like, is when you ask questions back at them.  They’re much like lawyers in that way.  Eleanor looks ready to interrupt him, but Thomas hasn’t stopped speaking.  Just keeps rolling on to the next point.  “But you’ve also spoken about coming from a background where being out was _not_ publically acceptable.  How it was difficult for you to come out because your family and your community were not receptive to you.  How it was _valid_ for those who were not prepared to come out to still feel the way they felt, and that they were still important members of the community, and would be welcomed when they made the decision to come out.  You’ve even said that no one should _force_ someone to be out as it’s a choice that impacts them on a deeply intimate and personal level.”

He has her even before she can frame her argument.  Miranda rubs the back of her partner’s hand, and cannot stop the curl of pleasure from overcoming her lips.  She _loves_ seeing her husband argue.  “James and I made a decision to not come out.  Miranda made a decision to not inform the public that we were engaged in a polyamorous relationship.  Those were decisions we made not to deceive the _public,_ who in any relationship is never welcome, but in consideration of the familial and personal relations that we have.  And the _choice_ that any LGBTQIA+ individual has the _right_ to make.”

Eleanor doesn’t seem to know whether she should support him or not, her head just nodding along like journalists do when they’re trying to figure out what to say and have _no idea_ what to say.  Thankfully, Utley is not nearly as direct.  “What were your opinions when the photos were first revealed?”

“Shock,” Miranda answers.  If they’re going to do this properly, there cannot be one voice talking more than the rest.  It has to be unified.  As a team.  “We’ve discussed the possibilities of coming out, but as you may have assumed, we never discussed doing so with photos of our...relations.”

Another photo goes up on the screen, but Miranda doesn’t bother looking at it.  “Why even take the photos at all?” It’s a question that Miranda hates.  As if this is somehow her fault for taking the pictures to begin with.  

“Ask any person who has a spouse in the military and they’ll tell you they like to keep photos of the person they love, but won’t get to see for months at a time,” Miranda says cooly.  It’s the neutral answer that’s designed to put someone on their back foot, but it’s not the answer James feels like leaving it at.  

His temper is flaring, and Miranda can feel it growing like a physical thing.  “That’s not really the right question though,” James answers.  “No one asks if it was someone’s fault for buying a nice car before it’s stolen.  No one asks if it’s someone’s fault for purchasing a television or a diamond ring before their house is burgled.  The photos were private, they were personal, they were ours, and they were stolen.  It’s personal and material gain for the hacker or thief responsible, and the _why_ has very little to do with it.”

“Asking someone why they took photos is like asking a rape victim how often she has consensual sex,” Thomas explains calmly, and any success they may have had with how he responded to the first set of questions is entirely undone in an instant.  Miranda feels herself smiling and nodding, but what’s done is done.  He said the ‘r’ word, and nothing else will matter for the rest of this interview.  “It’s not the victim’s fault that they had a body, nor that they wished to share it with those they loved.  It’s the perpetrator’s fault for taking what is not theirs, and using it for personal gain without the consent of the party or parties, in this case, involved.”

And despite the truth to what Thomas had said, Eleanor seizes on her opportunity immediately, “Are you comparing yourself to a rape victim?”

“As someone who works with rape victims on an almost daily basis,” Miranda interjects before anyone can say anything else.  “There is a similarity.  A violation that those who printed these photos of us did.  They bared bodies and actions and private moments that were _never_ intended for the public’s eyes.  They did it to cause shame and humiliation and pain, and they did it because they enjoy the suffering that their actions bring about.  It’s a power play, one intended to discredit one side, and one that’s specifically targeting the violation of the victims.  While the _physical_ aspects of the rape are not represented here, the emotional and mental violation are.”  

Eleanor obviously wants to attack the topic, but Utley is more forgiving.  He gestures toward them and asks an easier question.  “Some people are saying that it’s not possible to have a relationship with three people, and yet, you say you’ve done it for over ten years.  How do you keep a marriage, let alone a relationship like that, in tact for that long?”

“Respecting your partner, listening to your partner, giving your partner the courtesy they deserve when they want it,” Thomas answers without a moment’s hesitation.

James following acerbically, “A relationship with three people is the same as with two people, it’s just that, simply by definition, you have more people to actually give shit about.”  Someone will have to edit out his curse, but it’s impossible to miss the way Miranda laughs.  The way Thomas looks over her head to smile at James like he’s never heard someone say something so clever and amusing.

“And do you?  Do you care about both of them?”  Eleanor asks.  

It’s the kind question that will lead off a sound bite later.  The kind of snippet that will be taken out and played over with fancy music while everyone waits for the response.  But Miranda knows the response even as James says it.  She feels the response wrapping around her heart in a wall of love and support and comfort and capacity.  He never wanted this life, or this position.

He’d just wanted them, and they wanted him.  And still he sits there, at their side, and says four words that make everything pull into picture perfect clarity.  Whatever happens from here doesn’t matter.   _They,_ at least, will be fine.

Does James give a shit about them?

He does.

He smiles, and squeezes Miranda’s hand.  “With all my soul.”

He flies back to the Navy in the morning.

MSHTU’s case breaks four hours after that.

Three days later, Thomas loses his reelection campaign, and a vandal sprays messages of hate in huge black letters across the walls of Muldoon’s mosque.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-graphic descriptions of molestation and sexual assault of minors, and other sexual crimes against people of varying ages. Please keep this in mind for all discussions of MSHTU cases and others.

When Miranda was twenty-two, she undertook her pupilage at 2 Hare Court.  A long time prosecution set with a history to be proud of.  Her First Class Honors from King’s College had been sparkling and new, her robes had been freshly purchased, and she’d needed to spend an exuberant amount of money to ensure that her wig was perfect but not _too_ perfect.  

She’d been proud of herself, and her accomplishments, and she followed her pupil master into a small home in South London to observe as he prepared a case against a boy named Steven Morris.  A boy even younger than she.  He’d molested his autistic sister, and the only witness was a victim who couldn’t speak.

Linda Morris knew some sign language.  She knew how to gesture to get what she wanted.  But complex sentences were difficult, and high levels of stress encouraged meltdowns that could last for hours.  Her caretaker was Linda and Steven’s mother, and she burst into tears each time Miranda or her pupil master tried to gather information.  “He did it,” Dana Morris insisted.  “I know he did it.  I know he did!”

Linda screamed when Steven entered the room.  She cried when he touched her.  She drew pictures that psychologists determined were of concerning character.  She wept and wept and wept.  

But Steven went free.  The defense put their case to the jury, and the jury could not prove that _Steven_ had been the one who caused Linda such grief and turmoil.  A witness who could not speak for themselves, who could not explain precisely what happened, is no witness at all.

The defense had put its argument to a jury, and the jury had believed them.  “We don’t control the narrative,” Miranda’s pupil master had explained as they exited the courtroom.  She’d never felt more like death in her life.  “We can only do the best we can, with the information and the evidence we are given.  If we don’t have the evidence, we cannot properly prosecute.”

He gave her one hundred pounds and told her to get herself something to drink, and come back in the morning.  She took the money, took a train, and found herself standing outside of Thomas Hamilton’s door.  

Hair still cut like he was on active duty, Thomas plied her with liquor and cheap food as she cried like a child.  “How do we get more evidence?” she asked him.  “How do we stop it?”  She had been more than a little drunk and he’d indulged far more than he probably should have as well.

He kissed her and told her he needed less alcohol if they were going to plan their futures together.  That sounded about right, and she’d agreed with him before passing out in his bed.  If they had sex that night, she doesn’t remember it and it was probably terrible.

But she started her list the next morning.  A list that followed her through her remaining time as a pupil and the five years she spent prosecuting at the criminal bar.  The list of injustices that she hadn’t overcome, and the crimes she never wanted to see improperly brought to court again.

At Open Borders, it’s her magnum opus.

The most important part of her presence and career.  The part of her advocacy that she will never allow to suffer.  Not even for a moment.

The call from MSHTU came in, only hours after James left to return to duty, and even with Thomas floundering and uncertain, Miranda had left and done her job.

From the moment her liaisons with the Modern Slavery and Human Trafficking Unit agents moved in, and fourteen girls were pulled from a cold and damp warehouse with nothing but track marks and dried semen to show for their time in hell, Miranda and her team had been working.   

Visiting hospitals, getting the information from the tactical agents conveying that information into log books for the prosecution to review when needed.  Miranda had barely been able to dry her eyes from the tears she shed each time James needed to go back on duty, when she became entirely committed to those girls.

She met Max and Idelle at the hospital.  Their liaison, Anne Bonney, already there.  “The youngest is nine,” Anne explained when she stepped through the door.  “The oldest is twenty-seven.”

Children are the hardest.  Miranda learned that with Linda Morris.  They’re the ones that make or break advocates in sex trafficking.  The ones that destroy any chance someone has at being good at this job.  At sitting down next to someone and listening to the horrors of humanity and not letting it destroy you from the inside out.  

Miranda visits the nine year old first.  She always visits the children first.  She owes it to them, and she owes it to Linda.  This child, is named Jo.  She’s bruised and cut up.  She’s scared and crying.  She hasn’t been sexually assaulted, but from the looks and sound of it, it had been a near thing.  “Do we have them?” Miranda asks Anne just before they enter Jo’s room.

Anne has a reputation at MSHTU.  She's a quiet, but deeply dedicated individual.  She organizes tactics and she applies herself thoroughly to her job.  She even takes a special sense of pride and vindication whenever they bring these _bastards_ down.

She rarely smiles.  Rarely offers her opinion.  Rarely speaks about anything that’s not directly related to the work she’s doing and the people she’s trying to save.  Her focus and her drive had been two most important aspects to their relationship.  To their team.  They needed someone in MSHTU who could vouch that the work they did was in the benefit of the victims, and the victims needed someone in charge of their cases that knew what they were doing.

Miranda had never had a single reason to doubt Anne, and she had made it her best effort to ensure that Anne never had a reason to doubt her.  They haven’t discussed the photos or the press or the interviews.  They haven’t discussed James or Thomas or any of the things the rest of the country seem so keen on discussing with Miranda.  They’ve only discussed these girls and their case and what is in their best interest.

Miranda asks Anne, because they’ve spent months on breaking this cell.  Months on trying to find these girls in particular.  Months looking at photographs and taking interviews.  Max and Idelle and Augustus sat with scared parents and frightened friends and they spoke to them about the possibilities of finding their loved ones.  They had teams working on crisis counseling and they had a string of bad luck that left them with empty bunkers and abandoned sites more times then Miranda ever dared to think of again.

Standing in the hospital, in the doorway of a nine-year old girl who had been kidnapped on the way home from school, Anne _smiles._  “We got them.”

It’s the only bit of good news Miranda has heard in weeks.  She breathes out a long breath of air.  She closes her eyes and she commits herself to patience.  Calm.  Love.  She looks back at Anne and she nods her head.  

They enter the room together.  Anne in her earthy tones, Miranda in her warm sweater.   Jo cries her eyes out against Miranda’s chest, and Anne stands like a vengeful angel at her bedside.  Miranda asks questions.  She _makes_ herself ask the questions.  Because scared or not, crying or not, the fright of a child is not enough to destroy the men who did this to her.

It takes time.  

“Can you describe the men who took you?” Miranda asks.  She draws pictures with Jo.  Gives her pens and papers and crayons.  She draws the man that Jo describes and she asks all the specifics.  And when Jo cannot answer, she asks other questions.  She listens to Jo.  She takes notes.

She cares.

She’s not here as Jo’s prosecutor.  She’s not here as her lawyer.  She’s here to give someone who didn’t have a voice, someone who had _no choice_ , and to give Jo that choice.  To give her back what so many people would have silenced.  

That’s the trouble with being a criminal attorney.  On both sides of the bench.  You meet your defendant, you meet your witnesses, you review the brief and you review the case and you fight for their lives, and when it’s over?  It’s over.  They go about doing what they do, and you continue on to the next fight.  

Miranda’s pupil master had forgotten Linda Morris by the time Miranda had been prepared to leave chambers and start her career as an advocate instead.  She’d made that her final determination.  She’d walked up to the man and asked him if he knew who Linda Morris was, and he couldn’t describe one detail of her or what her case had been.  To him, it had been a standard week, and five years after a non-verbal autistic girl tried to tell the world that she'd been molested by her brother, the man responsible for prosecuting that brother had forgotten Linda’s name.  

He’d silenced the only voice that she had to communicate with.

Miranda wouldn’t do the same.

 

***

 

Open Borders maintains several housing arrangements for those in need of a place to stay.  Alternatives to remaining in hospital or being transported to a mental health facility or boarding house where it’s so easy to feel trapped or disappear in.  Social services speak to each victim and generate a list of needs and describe the necessities to Idelle.  Idelle then confers with Max on how best to provide such options and what would be in the best interests for their clients.  When the final list is generated, Miranda signs off and the plan goes into motion.

The customary items are all collected beforehand.  Fresh soap and toiletries, clean sheets and towels.  Food that is approved by the hospital is brought in and stocked on the shelves.  Several medical and mental health professionals, remain in the safe houses as official ‘guardians’.  They wear casual but carefully selected clothes designed to serve as both scrub uniform and comfort providing outfits.  The clothes are meant to appear normal while at the same time giving the wearer the ability to move quickly and effectively if need be.  At least two MSHTU agents stay to provide additional security and support.

The safe houses took time to create.  Their program still in its early stages.  Training had been difficult, and authorization had been a challenge.  Miranda spent months arguing for the need to ease victims back into normalcy while still providing the essential mental and medical care that they needed.  “It’s a choice,” she’d said more times than she dared to imagine.  “It’s a choice to want to get better, and to accept the need for help.  It’s a choice that cannot be made when you unstrap them from a bed in a warehouse only to strap them to a bed in a psychiatric hospital.  The difference must be more definite.  It must be more clear.”

When the pilot program was accepted, Miranda had nearly sobbed with relief.  Now, she sits in the safe house she’d put thousands of pounds into, and she stares blankly at the walls.  Jo’s parents were called as soon as she was found.  Someone from MSHTU debriefed them, and they saw their daughter for the first time since she went missing.

They’re with her now.  In the safe house that Miranda had built.  Sleeping in a room that was designed to give Jo a feeling of safety and security as MSHTU plan their next steps.  Twenty-nine arrests were made during the raid.

Jo’s description of her kidnapper is only one of the confirmed IDs that they have.  There were others.  Others that Max and Idelle had gathered.  Others that would continue to come together.  “We’re going to nail these bastards to a wall,” Anne tells Miranda firmly.  It feels good.   _Right._

They sit together in the safe house, and Anne drinks a beer while Miranda sits and listens.  She listens to the sound of frightened girls trying to sleep.  She doubts that many truly will.  “How long you been up?” Anne asks.  It’s the most Anne’s ever asked her about anything not revolving MSHTU.  

“Haven’t slept since this started,” Miranda admits.  She’d brought drawings of rapists and murderers and kidnappers to life.  She’d trusted the frightened eyes of a little girl, and she’d drawn a picture that Anne says matches the ID of one of their arrestees perfectly.   That’s part of this game they play.

Miranda works to get the victims to talk, and Anne ensures that everything can be prosecuted. Until such a time that Anne decides that they’ve collected enough, and that Miranda knows she’s gotten as much as she can get, Miranda won’t speak to or discuss the matter directly with the prosecutor.  Only when Miranda knows she’s received all the information, will the prosecutor be allowed in to ask their questions.  Then, Miranda can help Jo, or whomever she’s representing, as they try to tell their story.  She gets it right. 

Nothing is left to chance.  

Everyone finds their way to speak.

“You heard the news then?” Anne asks.  Miranda frowns.  She turns slowly, twisting her whole back rather than her neck, to look at Anne.  “The election results,” Anne explains.

“What day is it?” Miranda asks.

“Friday morning,” Anne replies.  The clock's just struck two a.m.  “Results came back hours ago.”  Neither say anything for a moment.  Miranda just breathes.  She thinks she can hear the starting of a shrieking.  A kind of shrill squeal that happens whenever the blood rushes to the head too quickly and it creates too much pressure in the inner ear.  “Your husband lost.”

James is on a Navy ship.

Jo is upstairs.

Thomas is home, alone.

Jo is nine years old and just was saved from a horrifying ordeal.

Thomas has _no one._

Jo is terrified of the very real possibility that a man with a too nice smile and puppy is going to come for her.  

“Go home,” Anne tells Miranda.  “It’s been four days.  You’re no good to her like this.”

"But-"

"-Go home, Miranda."  Anne puts a hand on Miranda's leg.  "That's an order."

Someone from MSHTU drives Miranda back.  She sits in silence the whole while.  She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be thinking about Thomas, or James, or Jo, or what.

Instead, she’s thinking about her list.  Her list of things that she swore would never compromise another investigation so long as she lived.  Her list of methods to ensure that a guilty party went down every time.  

Number four: _knowledge of sexual preferences and misconduct._

She hears a court clerk’s voice in the back of her head asking the jury, how do you find the defendant, Thomas Hamilton, in his charge of sexual indecency, guilty? Or not guilty?

And she hears the resounding reply.

Guilty.

_Guilty._

_Guilty._

The car stops outside her home, and she thanks the driver as politely as she can.  She runs up the steps and unlocks her front door.  There’s a fire burning in the fireplace, the whole house is blistering hot.  Peter Ashe is in the library, but Thomas is nowhere to be found.

Peter looks up at her and offers a pained smile.  “So you’ve heard,” he murmurs.  He sounds like a man who’s so deeply been defeated by the day’s events he cannot possibly think hard enough to give evidence or explain anything.  He’s exhausted, and Miranda is exhausted just by looking at him.

“I didn’t get any missed calls,” she says.  She checked.  She had been using her phone constantly since her case broke.  Calling Max, calling Augustus, trying to get everything in line as she organized Anne and MSHTU agents and victims.  “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“He didn’t want to bother you,” Peter explains.  He’s got a glass of scotch in his hand.  The bottle’s on the table before him.  He’s pale and there’s a slight shake to his hands.  

He’s not her priority.  “Where’s Thomas?” she asks.  

“Asleep,” Peter replies.  He gestures with his glass towards the stairs and she goes without another word.  She climbs the stairs two at a time and all but throws herself into the door to their bedroom.  

Her husband is lying on their bed, still dressed for the day, face first on their pillows.  The light to their bathroom is own.  The blankets are rumpled beneath him.  He hasn’t taken off his shoes.  Hasn’t done anything but throw himself on the bed like a child, lying there until sleep claimed him.

Miranda approaches slowly.  She calls his name.  He doesn’t respond.  She trails a hand up his arm, but he just lies still.  She sits beside him and toes off her shoes, and then gently pushes and prods him until he finally opens his eyes long enough to look at her.  “Hey,” she whispers.  It’s not nearly good enough.

It’s like losing a case, only this time he lost the cases of hundreds of thousands of constituents all at once.  His blue eyes are bloodshot, his face is splotchy from crying and exhaustion.  He crawls up the bed and rests his head against her shoulder, and he doesn’t say a damn thing at all.

What else is there to say?

He lost.

The people have spoken.

For now, his bid is over.

 

***

 

The argument is simple, but defining.

Peter sits on a stool in Miranda’s kitchen as she makes eggs and toast and orange juice while contemplating if she has the strength to deal with sausage and bacon as well.  He explains the people’s reasoning to Miranda in small words, as though she couldn’t understand it otherwise.  “Woodes Rogers votes the same on every issue that Thomas Hamilton does.  He supports the same causes.  He champions the same people.  He has a distinguished career at the bar.”

“Except,” Miranda says.  Because that’s what everything’s come down to.   _Except._

“Except...he doesn’t have the relationship drama or scandal decrying him a sexual deviant.”

And in the end, if people can have Thomas Hamilton without… well… it being _Thomas Hamilton_ exactly, then the people are much more comfortable with that.  

“And you?” Miranda asks, because she’s feeling testy and irritated.  “How did you cast your vote?”

“I’m not in Thomas’ district,” Peter reminds.  It’s not the answer Miranda’s looking for.  

She stares at him over the brim of her glass of orange juice, and cannot help but wonder why exactly he’s still here.  Why he slept in their library in a show of apparent support, just to tell them this.  “I must say, I was surprised John and Madi weren’t over when I came in last night.”  They’ve been such fixtures recently that the fact they hadn’t made an appearance at all seemed more surprising than anything else.  If anyone was going to spend the night, she'd have thought it'd be them. 

Peter cannot quite resist rolling his eyes at the mention of John’s name, and Miranda slides her drink over.  Turning back to her eggs and carefully sliding her spatula beneath the yolk so as to achieve a perfect eggy in a basket.

She takes her time.  Knowing Peter won’t discuss it unless she brings it up herself, and she knows enough about people trying to avoid uncomfortable truths to not look for them until you have all your thoughts in order.  “You don’t like him,” she suggests when she finishes doing up the plate.  She sets it before him; he thanks her and shrugs.  

When he still doesn’t offer his opinion, she goes on.  “More than that, you’ve _never_ liked him.”  She can all to easily remember the dinners Peter and Thomas had during the trial.  Them discussing the case while Miranda and James patiently eavesdropped with nothing to add.  

“I never understood why he and Thomas became so close.”  There’s an implication there that Miranda doesn’t like.  One that has her turning the stove off and sliding her pan off the burner so she can lean on the counter in front of Peter and really _look_ at him.

“You think he fought so hard for John because he was sleeping with James.”

“Did he?” Peter asks.  

 _“No.”_ He raises his brows at her and that’s _it.  “Jesus,_ Peter, we have enough people in this world knocking at our door asking that very same question and doubting our answer, don’t you start too.”

“You’re honestly telling me if you were handed this case, with this set of facts, your husband and John Silver and their connection, you wouldn’t see the complication?”

She shakes her head.  Snatches a rag off the handle for the oven and starts rubbing down the counter mindlessly.  “What complication exactly?  That he fought for his client?  That he made sure his client got the best representation he could get?  That he found who it was that _really_ set that bomb off and made sure they were properly punished?”

“It wasn’t his job to do that.  His job was to defend John Silver.”

“You’re angry he went after the Navy.”  Angry might not be the right word for it, but Peter makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds relatively accepting so she’ll take what she can get.  “It was the Navy’s bloody fault for having so many people invested in making the war happen.  Thomas did his job, and if Edward Teach and his band of irrepressible minions had never set off that bomb in the first place there wouldn’t have been a case for Thomas to make against the Navy to begin with.”

There’s a sound behind Peter.  The door opening.  Miranda has just enough time to look up to see who it is before Peter keeps talking.  “It was his job to defend John, not prove that six sailors were guilty of--”

“--setting off a _bomb_ that cost my defendant his leg and another sailor his life?” Peter’s face drains of color as he turns in his seat to look in the doorway.  Thomas had shed his suit jacket, but his dress shirt is still the same from the night before.  It’s rumpled beyond repair and his hair is a mess.  He's got his mobile in his hand, though he tucks it into his pocket as he stands before them.

He looks like he’d rather grab a bottle and drink himself to death back in bed, but at least Peter has given him something else to rage at for the moment.  Miranda sets her cloth down.  Waiting for Thomas to make the next move.  “Thomas--”

“Do you want to know the real reason I fought so hard for John?” Thomas asks.  He walks slowly into the room.  Swaying a touch.  The dark circles under his eyes are darker than ever before.  His skin looks terribly unhealthy.  He reaches a hand out to steady himself against the counter.  

Peter doesn’t look like he really wants to know the answer to be honest.  But he’s frozen.  Staring at his friend dumbly.  “Because you raised the argument that Laith Muldoon might have actually been involved because of his faith.  And you didn’t want to give him the defense he deserved.”

Rage, hot and poignant sparks in an instant.  “Wait one minute--”

“--you were coaching him.  Trying to get him to just admit to being guilty and it was _wrong._ Wrong for him, wrong for John.  You wanted them both to admit to something they didn’t do, to a crime they would have been _imprisoned for life_ for because you looked at Laith’s past and you looked at John’s and you decided they must be guilty.  That’s not your fucking place as a defense barrister.  That’s not your fucking choice to make.”

“I never coach--”

“--The trial of the fucking century and you were fucking coaching your muslim defendant to plead guilty because, what?  He might get fifty years?  Forty?  Instead of life?  All because you were too scared to fight for him properly.”

Peter shoves away from the counter.  It happens in a flash.  One minute he’s sitting there and the next he’s towering over Thomas and glaring down at him with fists clenched.  Miranda shouts for him to stop, but he ignores her.  Standing a hair’s breadth away from her husband and shaking in rage.  “It was the right choice to make given the information we had.  You had no _idea_ what you were digging into.  But you spoke to my client, _my_ client, and--”

“--and he didn’t plead guilty for a crime he wasn’t guilty of.  It’s what you should have done.  What you should have been willing to do from the start.  And then to turn around and try to badger John in court as if he was setting up Laith from the start?   _Fuck you.”_  The punch lands before Miranda can so much as shout a warning.  Thomas’s head snapping to the side as he trips over his own awkward footing to strike his shoulder against the wall.

“That’s _enough!”_ Miranda yells, throwing herself forward to get between them.  It was over before she even said a word.  Peter’s staring at his hand in shock and Thomas is refusing to make eye contact.  Cupping his cheek with his palm and staring down at the ground like it would suddenly provide the answers to questions only he knew to ask.  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Miranda asks, perversely pleased when Peter has the decency to recoil.  

To look at her, fully aware of the grave mistake he’s just made.  The error he’s committed.  The boundaries he’s crossed.  He’s so incredibly lucky that James wasn’t here.  “I’m sorry...I’m sorry I just…” he looks over to Thomas.

“He just lost his election, our partner is in the very Navy that was corrupt enough to have senior officers attempting to turn a profit from their war mongering, and our personal lives are in the tabloids, do you _really_ think right now is the time to be having this argument?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats.  Miranda doesn’t need to follow his eyes to know that Thomas hasn’t looked up yet.  That he’s still standing there, waiting for something more.  Quiet and unforgiving.  

Peter can apologize again and again, but it won’t matter.  Thomas won’t forgive him.  Not for this.  And even now, as Peter inches away from where he’s standing and heading toward the door to leave, the reality of that is setting in.  Just before he disappears completely, Thomas speaks.  “Your _Islamic Extremist_ defendant, that you so brilliantly attempted to put in jail, was in the paper this morning.”  Peter may as well have been carved from stone.  “Someone vandalized his mosque.”  Miranda feels pressure squeezing down on her chest.  It hurts.  Everything hurts.  Her head aches.  Her teeth feel like they’re burning in her mouth.  It’s not fair.  “Because that’s what happens when you give in to fear and violence Peter.  It begets more fear and violence.  And the cycle goes on and on.”

Thomas is done.  He pushes off the wall and turns his back to Peter.  Steps around Miranda, trailing his fingers along her arm as he goes.   _I’m all right._ He opens the fridge and withdraws the carton of orange juice they have inside, and Peter leaves without saying another word.

This is what things have turned to, now.  And Miranda doesn’t know what the hell she’s supposed to do about any of it.  “How bad are the girls?”  Thomas asks.  It’s the first time they’ve had a chance to speak about anything regarding her case or the people that are depending on her.  She needs to get back to them.

She needs to be here.

But she made a choice a long time ago, that if she was going to do this, then _they_ came first.  James had promised to be here, and they’d thought they made it perfect.  They’d thought they’d arranged it just so.  Thomas isn’t asking how bad it is because he wants to know the details, he’s asking because he wants to know if they really will come first now as well.  Whether it’s necessary for her to be the one to do it.

“One of them’s nine,” she replies.  The glass he’d just filled gets slammed hard on the counter top.  She can hear his ragged breathing as it hisses from behind his teeth.  

“I’m going to call John,” Thomas informs.  He sounds raw.  In pain.  “Gonna clean that fucking shit off that mosque.”

“Thomas…”

He takes three steps and then he’s crowding her.  Just as Peter crowded him.  Only this time, he cups her face between his palms.  “Get these bastards,” he orders.  “And help that girl.”  He kisses her firmly on the lips, before pulling her to his chest and holding her tight.  “Get those bastards...every single one.”

And frankly, it’s the only thing she has left to do.  


	8. Chapter 8

Jo’s parents are white, late thirties, and deeply religious.  Jo had been wearing a gold crucifix when she’d been taken, only a few blocks away from her primary school.  She’d been walking the same road she’d always walked when a man had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to adjust the leash on his puppy’s collar.  Jo had seen the dog, had asked if she could pet it, and had started talking to the man.  He’d offered to show her more puppies, and she’d gone off with him.  The CCTV footage had been all they had of Jo for five months. 

Her parents had prayed in the police station when they’d seen the footage.  They’d prayed in the MSHTU offices when a picture of Jo was flagged on one of their online searches.  They’d prayed when they’d been reunited with their daughter in the hospital, nine hours after an MSHTU response team found Jo and thirteen other girls waiting to be auctioned off and sold.  

They were the kind of people that Miranda remembered teasing when she was a child.  When her and Thomas were forced into wearing fancy clothing and stand in church like proper citizens of the crown.  They’d spend their Saturdays chasing down boys and girls to spend their evenings with, and their Sundays praying away their sins.  

_ It’s all a bit hypocritical,  _ Miranda had said when she’d walked in on Thomas shagging the mother of an altar boy they knew in a storage cupboard in their families’ preferred church.   He’d been as smug as ever was when he kissed her good and proper, mouth still tasting like the sex of the woman he’d just finished with, and led her out so they could kneel next to their parents and bow their heads in prayer.  

Thomas had never once seen the point in giving a damn about someone they could never see nor hear nor touch.  After her parents died, Miranda hadn’t seen the point in it either.  She’d begged God to let her keep her parents, and God hadn’t listened.  They died in a car crash and God didn’t care that He’d orphaned her and left her alone just as Thomas was set to ship out in the Navy. 

Her best friend hadn’t been at the funeral.  He’d just sent her a letter.   _ I’m so sorry.   _

It wasn’t enough. 

Miranda doesn’t know for certain if God exists.  She doubts that He even listens to prayers if He doses.  But Jo’s parents believed.  They believed in Him with a fervor that Miranda cannot comprehend, but doesn’t doubt in its sincerity.  They pray to Him, and Miranda hopes he listens.  Because Jo deserves His kindness, even is  _ she  _ never had. 

In the Open Borders safe house, Jo has toys and clothes to choose from.  A social worker is assigned to sit with her and talks to her about what she went through.  Her parents can stay with her, and they can also provide her space to come to terms with what’s going on.  

When Miranda steps through the door that morning, after leaving Thomas to dress and get himself to Muldoon’s mosque on his own, she doesn’t know what she’s entirely expecting.  It isn’t Jo sitting with her hands over her ears screaming while her mother sobs in front of her and her father asks what’s happening to the medical professionals trying to do their job. 

Miranda had bought coffee for the team, hot cocoa for Jo, and a variety of treats and breakfast items for everyone to sort through as needed.  It was enough for everyone, and the selection had been a fine way for Miranda to spend her time attempting to withdraw memories from her mind. 

She hated seeing Thomas hurt.  Hated seeing how he gets after he’s hurt.  It’s too much a reminder of childhood days spent ducking under tree limbs and telling hushed secrets in the dark.  Miranda had lost her faith in God when she was seventeen years old, but Thomas had never had faith to begin with.  He couldn’t have, in the life he led.  It hurts seeing him like this now. 

Hurts, like she imagines it hurts Jo’s parents.  Their child is damaged, and they don’t have any way to fix it.  

Miranda sets the food and drink down.  Anne is loitering nearby, watching the proceedings quietly.  “What happened?” Miranda asks. 

“They asked if Jo wanted to pray with them.”  That seemed innocent enough, and so Miranda waits.  There’s more.  There has to be more.  Anne sends her a cutting look from the corner of her eye.  A look that makes Miranda’s stomach coil and think of Linda Morris.  She picks up one of the coffees.  “They got on their knees.”  She takes a sip.  

She nods. 

The trouble with healing, is that it isn’t a straight line.  It’s not an uphill battle.  There’s no charming graph that can be drawn, no pleasant picture.  Humanity doesn’t exist on a level plane, only to sink into a squirming depth when trauma occurs.  Healing doesn’t return someone back to that level plane once more, and it doesn’t look pretty when it’s done. 

Healing is messy and complicated and awful, and sometimes screaming on the floor helps more than any words or placating gesture could.  There are drugs in this house specifically designed to help end a psychotic episode should they become necessary, but the job of these professionals isn’t to resort to such methods until it  _ is _ a last resort. 

Jo isn’t hurting herself or others.  She’s crying.  She’s upset.  She’s a traumatized child and she needs to let it out.  There’s nothing else that they can do but let her let it out.  Even if it hurts.  Even if it tears at the fibers of their hearts, begging them to please make it stop.  “Please God,” Jo’s father sobs.  “Make it stop.” 

***

Miranda can’t talk to Jo or her family while they’re this upset.  Instead, she goes and touches base with the other members of her team.  She checks on their emotional and mental well being, she confirms they’re managing as best they can.  They’re all professionals, and they’ve all done this kind of work before, but they’re also all human.  And humans are fallible. 

Max sits in the back garden of the safe house, a cup of tea in her hands, and Miranda sits beside her.  “How are you doing?” Miranda asks.  It’s quiet out here.  You can’t hear Jo or the other girls.  You can’t hear much of anything.  

There was talk in the early days about making a pond of some sort.  Something light and pleasant.  But they’d needed to come to the harsh reality that ponds were dangerous.   _ Everything was dangerous,  _ really, but...some disasters they didn’t need to court.  Some problems they didn’t need to give themselves.  So instead there’s just a grassy field of chamomile.  Lovingly tended to by volunteers at Open Borders.  Always smelling fresh and sweet.  

“I’m well,” Max affirms.  She sips at her tea and breathes in the steam.  Letting it rise up and glance across her cheeks.  “And you?” 

“One of my husband’s best friends punched him in our kitchen this morning.” Max tilts her head, looking at Miranda from the corner of her eye.  She is supremely unimpressed.  Miranda doesn’t blame her.  It’s not a particularly impressive story at all.  

There was a time in Miranda’s life, when if she said those words to someone, they would have asked her why.  Why did Peter punch Thomas?  Why had things escalated?  Why was she here instead of there?  

But Max doesn’t ask her why.  Doesn’t ask her anything.  Just sips at her tea and asks if the damage was bad.  “Nothing Madi can’t touch up.  You heard about the mosque?” Max nods.  “He’s going to clean it.  There will be cameras.” 

“Someone will think it’s a publicity stunt.”  Max tilts the remainder of her tea back into her mouth.  She sets the cup to the side and digs her hands into her sleeves.  Christmas is only in a few days and it’s terribly cold at the moment.  Pale winter light struggling to bite through the overcast sky. 

Max is right, but, “If cameras go there to videotape Thomas cleaning hate off the walls of a mosque, they have to report that it was put up in the first place.  That there’s racial tensions and islamophobia in their city.  They have to address that in order to address what he’s doing.  And if it draws even the slightest bit of attention and support...it will have been worth it.” They’ve been doing this a long time. 

Something dings on her phone and she pulls it out.  Sliding her finger across the screen to get to her calendar.  It’s a mess.  A complete and total mess.  Losing her assistant and not being able to replace him properly had turned her calendar to utter shit, and she glares at it.  Emailed meetings between departments and agencies had auto filled and there were several conflicts that needed to be addressed sooner rather than later. 

That being said...she pulls open her email and searches for any messages from HR.  Someone had to have filled the post by now, and she doesn’t particularly care who it is, so long as they can get her calendar under control. 

She’s tempted to just call John again and see if he can fill in, but he’s almost certainly at the mosque.  She can’t keep abusing her friends when they have their own personal problems to deal with.  

HR apparently  _ had  _ been busy and had started a slew of potential new hires.  Some even very highly qualified.  “Have you thought about what to do with Samuel Jenks?” Max asks just as Miranda starts opening resumes for their final review.  It takes Miranda a moment to remember who Samuel Jenks even is.  She almost thought he was an applicant, but then realized it was something much different.  It’s her vandal.  The boy who ruined her car. 

Max’s voice was low and quiet when she asked, private as these discussions should be, but Miranda still glances over her shoulder toward the door behind them and wonders if someone will be able to overhear.  “He made a mistake,” she sighs.

“No,” Max refutes.  “He personally attacked you.” 

“It’s just a car.” 

Max’s hand unfolds from her clothing.  It reaches across the space between them, settling on her wrist.  She meets Miranda’s eyes and she doesn’t look away.  “It is not just a car.”  For a moment, Miranda feels like she cannot breathe.  She feels as though she doesn’t know what to say, nor even if she has  _ permission  _ to say what she wants to say.  She feels her throat clog with mucus and her eyes fill with tears and she shouldn’t be doing this. 

Not here at the safe house when Jo needs her more.  Her personal life should not be involved at all.  This is how people lose cases.  How help isn’t given when it needs to be given.  “I want you to imagine Jo.”  It’s an underhanded tactic that works because Max knows it’s going to work.  “I want you to imagine her, years from now.  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.  I want you to imagine her leaving her job and seeing her car.   _ Slut  _ carved into it.   _ Whore. Jo Ryan was fucked here.  _  I want you to imagine her calling you.  And you telling her to let it go.  To ignore it.  You know what ignoring these things does.  You know what not talking about it does.” 

It creates shame.  Shame and fear and loneliness and isolation.  

“If I fire him, he will feel justified in his action.  He will feel as though the slut he talked back to deserved her car to be trashed.  Deserved to deal with  _ one more thing  _ on an already awful day.” 

“Would you want him to speak to Jo?  Right now?” 

_ No.  _

But.

“He needs to learn  _ how  _ to speak to Jo.”  Max scowls unhappily.  Pulls away from Miranda so she can stand.  She dusts off her knees with imaginary dusty and she adjusts her warm coat around her body.  Her curly brown hair springs as she moves.  Bouncing about as she turns about on her heel.  “I can punish him.  I can easily get him an ASBO.  I can fine him, I can drag his name through the mud and ensure that he’s never going to get a job in this field ever again.  But what good will it do?” 

This time, Max doesn’t argue.  She just waits.  “I’m not… ignoring what he did.  I’m not, denying it happened.  I’ll talk about it if it does.  But right now, for me, with everything else happening, I don’t want the scrutiny.  I don’t want to discuss it with anyone.  I don’t want to think about my own employees vandalizing my car with terminology that never should have been used in the first place.

“You can’t change someone’s mind or keep them from doing something foolish by punishing them.  Samuel needs to learn why those words were inappropriate, he needs to learn why he can’t just going about doing things like that, and he needs to believe it was wrong.  I can’t make him believe something was wrong if I don’t first try to show him.” 

“He works for an organization dealing with victims of sexual assault on a daily basis and he carved the word  _ slut  _ on your car.  Do you truly believe there is anything you have to teach him?” 

That’s the trick of it.  The careful balance that has to be maintained.  There’s a fine line between someone who is incapable of being saved, and someone who only  _ seems  _ that way.  The kind of manly man bullshit that encourages boys to act like they don’t care and to do absurd things like keying cars and mocking women. 

Some truly believe it and there’s no amount of coaching or counseling that can stop it.  That can change it.  “You can’t save everyone,” Max reminds Miranda firmly.  “You can’t make everyone see.  And you also shouldn’t put yourself in a position to feel uncomfortable while you try to make it work.” 

The comment catches Miranda off guard.  Her brows furrow.  Her nose scrunches.  She squints at Max, waiting for an explanation.  Max raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.  “You’ve not been to the office since.” 

That hadn’t been intentional.  There were things to do.  People to see.  Interviews and--and endless excuses.  She bites her lip.  “Fire Samuel.  Give him charges.  Give him a true and proper court hearing, and then suggest your punishment.  Community service, assistance, what-have-you.  I am not suggesting he go to jail or be turned into a mockery of the justice system.  I am merely suggesting you allow the justice system to do what it should do.  And you give yourself permission to be a victim as well.” 

‘Victim’ is one of the most common words that Miranda hears in her profession.  The  _ victim  _ of a crime.  The  _ victim  _ of sexual assault.  The victim, the victim, the victim.  There are those who have fought to replace the word with something more positive.  Who have started a movement to call all victims, ‘survivors’ instead.  

There was a conference last year where a panel discussed just that.  The difference between a victim and a survivor, and the stages of understanding that take place that moves one person from one category to the next.  When do you get the right to call yourself a survivor?  The moment after it happened?  The week after?  The month?  When does it feel right to cast off your victimhood and to instead replace it with a word like that. 

Survivor. 

Miranda doesn’t feel like she’s survived anything yet.  Not with the media still replaying bits of her life ad nauseum.  Not with the pain still fresh from the losses that have been coming after her again and again.  Max doesn’t use the word ‘survivor’ because it’s not there.  

It’s still happening. 

The tears that tried to come earlier start to fall now.  They burn at Miranda’s eyes and she hisses in frustration as she swats at her face.  Max crouches in front of her and pulls her into her arms and Miranda rests her head against the cashmere warmth of Max’ shoulder and breathes in the hot spicy smell of coriander and turmeric.  

It hurts. 

Everything hurts. 

But, Max’s arms are a balm that sets her heart at ease.  Miranda feels warm.  Safe.  And thankfully, not at all alone. 

***

“Hormones,” Anne tells Miranda when she steps back inside the safe house.  She spent a few minutes adjusting her hair and her makeup and ensuring that she looked the part.  But now that she was here she was committed.  Focused.  Jo’s not in the sitting room crying anymore.  

Status quo has been achieved.  

“What?” Miranda asks. 

“Was a news report or some shit.  Said hormones were in tears.  People feel numb after they cry because they cried out all their hormones.  Made it so they can’t feel anything at all.  S’why tears all look different under microscope and everything, cause it’s different hormones makin’ it happen.” 

“What do you suppose my tears look like?”  Miranda asks.  

She’s not sure how she feels about having personal conversations with Anne.  But Anne merely huffs and rolls her eyes.  Shrugging her shoulders and waving her hand about uselessly.  “Do I look like I care?” At least, Miranda considers, Anne hasn’t changed  _ too  _ much. She’s still the same person at the end of the day, and that’s lovely. 

Anne tells her that Jo stopped crying not long after Miranda stepped outside, and that she was in her room now.  Talking to one of the other girls they rescued.  One of the support staff nearby to help if needed.  Jo’s parents made use of the coffee and pastries that Miranda had brought with her and are sitting together in the dining room.  They look just about as defeated as any human being  _ can  _ look. 

The time for personal weakness has passed, and Miranda steadies herself before she approaches.  “Mr. and Mrs. Ryan?” she asks politely, approaching slowly and unobtrusively.  There are tears still on their faces.  Their skin blotchy and red.  Todd Ryan pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose before pushing it back in his pocket.  Mary Ryan just starts to cry again. 

“My daughter,” Todd says, his voice scratchy and sore.  “She needs the best helping her.” 

Something tickles in the back of Miranda’s mind.  A concept that has always been there, but has never quite taken root like it has now.  Still, she meets Todd Ryan’s eyes.  Says, “Yes, sir,” and waits. 

“This place...this place...this place and you and.”  Todd sniffs loudly.  He’s angry.  Standing up.  One hand on his wife’s shoulder as she starts sobbing harder into her hands.  Miranda wonders what her tears look like.  What hormone produces despair, and what crystals does it make under the glass of a microscope.  “My daughter needs the best.”

Anne steps closer.  Her shoulder in line with Miranda’s, her arms crossed over her chest.  Defensive and irritable.  “She is the best.”

“Is she?” The words are spat in Miranda’s face. 

There’s a video online.  A short little clip showing the five stages of grief.  An animated giraffe caught in quicksand, slowly coming to terms with his impending death.  Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  Each stage accompanied with a ‘do dooo’ sound bite that turns it all quite humorous.  Miranda showed it to Thomas and James once and it stayed with them. 

They’d hum the sound effect idly to themselves.  Making a joke out of a complex situation.  Giving them the strength to push forward through the onslaught of troubles until they are able to make it to the other side. 

Miranda hears the echoing now.  Do dooo.  Anger.  

“With her sex life plastered across tabloids and her husband screaming rape.  What does he know about anything?  What does she?” 

Miranda knows she should excuse herself from this matter.  She should re-assign someone the parents can work with.  She should be respectful of their wishes and do what’s best for Jo.  She knows this.  She knows. 

But she also knows this is a concession that will lead to further concessions.  This is a move that will lead them to similar choices in the future.  More people pulling away.  More transfers made.  Until she steps away from the organization that she spent the past twenty years trying to put together.  Until she walks away from something that she built from the ground up.  From something she cared more for than anything else in this world. 

She can’t make that choice. 

Not out of anger.  Not like this.  “When I was a child,” she starts.  Todd’s eyes snap to hers and she holds them.  “My best friend was horrifically abused by their father.” She watches as Todd’s cheek twitches, his brows furrow.  Watches as he prepares to argue that it’s not nearly the same thing.  She knows it’s not.  That’s not the point.  “I knew.  My parents knew.  The whole town knew.  But no one did anything because no one wanted to speak out against the man.  So they let it happen.  And my friend grew up and I grew up, and to this day...not a single person said anything at all about it. 

“At the time, I thought they at least understood that I knew, and that I cared.  That I would never have allowed it, had I been in a position to stop it.  That I did everything a child is supposed to do.  I told my parents, I told the authorities, I spoke out.  But no one cared.  No one stepped in.  And fifteen years later, that same friend who I assumed knew that I cared--was in an abusive relationship that they didn’t realize was abusive.  Because that’s the kind of relationship that had been defined as their normal.  Their right.” 

Todd’s jaw is working.  Mary, however, has stopped crying into her palms.  She’s sniffling, but her tears have stopped.  She’s looking past her husband up at Miranda, and Miranda presses on.  “There are things you don’t know until you feel them.  Until you stand on the other side of the line and you feel it.  You don’t know why your friend has a tendency toward perfectionism.  You don’t know why your friend has a drive for self-destruction.  You don’t know why they want what they want.  You assume that it’s just part of the quirks of their life.  They suffered a tragedy and so you ignore the little things.  Until one day those little things have built and built and become big things.” 

Somewhere, in this house, Jo is with someone who truly understands.  Who was there with her.  Who can talk to her in a way that only she can talk to her in.  Who knows what the smells are, who knows what the words were.  Who knows everything. 

“You’re right in thinking that I’m not the qualified doctor that your daughter should speak to.  But what I am, is someone who has spent forty-five years of their life watching someone they care about try to manage a pain that has spanned their lifetime.  I can’t fix everything for your daughter.  The girl you knew before this is never going to come back, and you as her parents need to understand that.  She can come close.  She can be similar.  But she’s  _ never  _ going to be the same Jo Ryan you said goodbye to on that last day she went to school.”

It’s too much too soon.  Todd shakes his head.  Takes a step forward, “How dare you--”

“--just like  _ you  _ are not the same person you were last week.  Or last year.  Or last decade, Mr. Ryan.” Todd freezes.  Just a few steps away.  “People change.  They are always changing.  My job here, Mr. Ryan, isn’t to give you your daughter back exactly as she was.  It isn’t to recreate the child you froze in amber.  My job is to help your daughter find her own voice to express  _ her  _ needs.  Because while you are hurting and upset, I promise you--she is hurting more.  And she is confused.  And she doesn’t know where to go or what to do.  And she needs  _ you  _ to understand that.” 

Miranda licks her lips.  Swallowing a mouthful of saliva as she presses on.  “The first day my friend came to me with belt marks on their back, they were different then they were the day before.  The first day they came to me  _ ashamed  _ of the belt marks on their back.  They were different.  I have spent my life learning from the mistakes I made as a child, learning from the mistakes I made as an adult, and from the mistakes I make every day, when it comes to listening.  When it comes to  _ acting.   _

“You can take her from here.  That’s your right as her parent.  She’s not a hostage.  She’s not held prisoner anymore.  If she wants to go home, if you want to take her--there’s nothing we can do to stop you.  And I wouldn’t.  But you have to learn to listen to her when she lies, and learn how to detect the lies as what they are.  You have to learn to understand what she wants, and why she wants it.  And every day is a challenge.  Because there’s a voice that’s been silenced and it’s a voice that you need to give life to again. 

“I’ve spent my life listening for that voice, learning how to detect the signs that I’m not the best person for the job, and teaching myself how to find the best person for the job if it’s not me.”  Miranda pauses.  She’s not yet released Todd’s eyes.  She’s held them steady this whole while.  “I’m willing to spend however long it takes to help your daughter in whatever capacity she needs me to help her.  I believe I can help her.  I want to help her.  I know how to help her.  I ask that you let me do my job, so that I  _ can  _ help her.”

Todd’s lips purse.  His chin trembles.  His skin pinches in strange places as he tries to withhold his voice until he knows what the right answer is.  It’s been minutes now.  Minutes of direct eye contact from the moment this started, and Miranda keeps her gaze steady.  Forcing the man to meet her eyes and forcing him to realize that she’s not intending to back away from this. 

Challenges will always exist.  Pain will always happen.  And tears are sometimes all you can do.  But there’s a point when you have to cede control to someone who  _ does _ know what they’re doing, and at that point, Mary reaches for her husband’s hand.  She squeezes it as she looks at Miranda.  “We just want Jo to have the best.” Miranda keeps looking at Todd, until finally Todd’s eyes flick away.  Then and only then, does she address Mary directly.  Eye to eye, wife to wife. 

“There is no best.  There is no one method that works every time.  Mental and physical health are complex and mysterious and strange.  But what I can tell you, is that as long as your expectations and timelines for Jo are not greater or more advanced than her own...then we will offer every chance and opportunity available to make sure Jo can get the help she needs.  And if that’s what you mean by the best...then that’s what we can provide.” 

It comes down to a single wordless moment.  The four of them in this kitchen, deciding the life of a girl not even there to give her opinion on the matter.  In a way, it feels like they’ve once again silenced her.  Once again made a choice without her.  Miranda’s ever cognizant of that.  But dreams and reality often clash, and politics always make things convoluted.  Right now, this choice isn’t Jo’s to make.  It’s her parents.  

Right now, her mother nods.  Looks Miranda in the eye, and says “Thank you.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Thomas is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, half pint of Haagen-Dazs resting on his tummy, feet kicked up onto their half table in their sitting room, licking ice cream off a plastic spoon he’s turned over in his mouth.  It’s pineapple-coconut.  James’ favorite.  Pulling the spoon from his mouth, he points it accusingly in Miranda’s direction.  “You told them about my father?”

She’s next to him with some cookie dough of her own.  No need to symbolically mourn the departure of their lover.  Cookie dough was her favorite, and she was quite happy to eat it even if Thomas wanted to act like a child about his own ice cream choice for the evening.  There’s a laptop set up on the table between their equally propped up feet.  “I said my best friend, and didn’t use pronouns.”

The distinction is minimal at best, even if most people here _abusive relationship_ and immediately presume female.  Thomas had a right to know.  He hums thoughtfully, scooping a decent amount from his carton.  He likes to flip his spoon over.  Plopping the ice cream on his tongue directly rather than scraping it off with is lips like a sensible person.  He claims it stops brain freeze, but Miranda has her doubts.  His theory doesn’t hold much merit.  Or scientific fact for that matter.

“Did I scare you?” Thomas asks, upturned spoon still dangling from his lips.  He looks like a child.  His hair is even more mussed than usual.  When he’s finished gumming at whatever was left of his pineapple-coconut, he pulls the spoon out and goes for another bite.  

“Always.”  They made a rule long ago to never lie to each other.  For most of their lives it had been inherent.  But then Thomas had started to pretend things were fine when they weren’t, and the rule needed to be said.  Time and time again.  Until Thomas understood she meant it, and knew she would never be upset with him so long as he told the truth.

Her husband hums curiously for a moment.  Keeping his opinions to himself just long enough for Miranda to sigh and press him for whatever question he wanted to ask next.  “It’s nothing,” he excuses naturally.  “Only...I imagine my father wouldn’t be pleased to know that we’ve been so cavalier speaking about him as of late.”

It took longer than Miranda would have thought for attention to be brought to the scars in a few of Thomas’ photos.  Some even suggested the pictures must have been photoshopped, or perhaps they were the product of a particularly fun night between the three of them.  As if Miranda would ever be careless enough to strike Thomas so hard he scarred.

As if James would have ever let her even if she or Thomas wanted to.  James has very hard and fast rules about permanent bodily harm.  Namely: he didn’t want to see or experience any.  It doesn’t stop Miranda from threatening to pierce his ears when he finally left the Navy and tell him that they could make a proper pirate out of him for their next costume party.

James usually just replies by rolling his eyes.

But scarring each other’s backs?  They’d never have even thought of such a thing.  

Thomas takes another spoonful of ice cream.  He’s calm about it now, but Miranda doubts it will last forever.  While some articles blame Miranda or James for scarring Thomas, there are online communities engaging in vicious debates right now about child abuse and serious domestic violence.

“Has he spoken to you?” Miranda asks gently.  The outside of her cookie dough has produced a thin layer of frost.  She drags her thumb nail across it, watching as it makes a tiny little whorl of icy snow.  Does it count as snow?  If it doesn’t fall from the sky?  She never knows what to call this.  Either way, she scrapes.  Makes patterns as she waits.   

She’s partway through a haphazard fir de lis, when her husband hums.  “Mother called.”  Miranda scowls at her ice cream.  She despises both of Thomas’ parents equally, but there’s a certain kind of hatred that can only be reserved for bystanders of violence.  “She’s very disappointed.”

“Shrew.”  It’s the nicest word Miranda can come up with, and Thomas huffs.  Taps her shoulder with his and smiles at her with a flutter of eyelashes and a dimple in his cheek.  She still amuses him, even after all this time.  There’s that she supposes.

“She cried, actually,” Thomas admits next.  His next spoonful is larger than the last and Thomas’ face is sinful in his bliss.  Perhaps Miranda had been unfair to him.  He adores the sweet flavor of this food.  But even so.  It’s not his favorite.  His favorite is mocha crunch, and he’d passed it over at least ten times until they finally found pineapple coconut.  “Asked me if James was why she didn’t have grandchildren.”

Even before Miranda had started menopause they’d made a decision that children were not things they were interested in.  But it’s the question everyone wants to know the answer to.  The one that earns them strange looks and uncomfortable expressions.  Miranda’s needed to school her features more times than not whenever it’s come up.  Accepting well-meaning words like _I’m so sorry for your loss,_ and _that’s too bad._

Most recently she’s heard _you could always adopt_ , and she doesn’t even bother trying to imagine what that would be like.  And now?  After all of this?  She’s not interested in the least in fighting a court battle proving that she, Thomas, and James could make a strong family unit for a child.  

The closest any of them came to having a child was when Peter’s daughter was born.  Thomas and Miranda had been named godparents, and they’d spent a few awkward minutes in the hospital on the first day Abigail Ashe drew breath watching the wriggling baby and trying to figure out what to do with her.  Miranda had found herself holding the baby at one point when everyone was fussing over her mother, and she’d felt absolutely nothing at all.

 _It’s different when it’s your own,_ she was informed dutifully.   _You’ll see._  

Except she hadn’t seen, and Thomas hadn’t seen, and by the time James came into the picture they were terribly grateful that _James_ hadn’t seen either.  None of them cared about it.  None of them wanted children.  And even if they _had..._

“We never would have let your parents anywhere near our children,” she tells Thomas firmly.  Because they would have had more than one.  All three of them had agreed on that point.  It was none or at least two.  Only children the lot of them, sometimes the empty silences and too quiet rooms was simply too much.  They’d always dreamed of having siblings.  Even when it never came to pass.

Thomas casts Miranda an indulging look, but he knows it’s true.  He knows that the first moment Miranda became pregnant he would have erected a wall between them and his family.  She still doesn’t understand why he hasn’t done so now.  Why wait for a child?  It’s not as if his parents were worthy of his presence or theirs.

An alert comes up on their laptop.

Whatever he’d been about to say dies on his lips.  Thomas sits up and Miranda snatches his ice cream off his lap just as he leans forward to collect their computer.  He rests it on their knees, pressed together as close as they can, clicking the _call accept_ button.  Miranda hands him his ice cream back just as the green light above their laptop’s webcam flicks on.  

There’s a pause.

A black screen.

A computerized voice reads them the call information and asks if they wish to accept a call from “Lieutenant Commander James McGraw.”  They confirm verbally, and an automated set of instructions reminding them that they must follow all appropriate protocol and that their call would be listened in on and can be interrupted at any point plays.

The calling information has changed slightly over the years.  Miranda’s heard various iterations and attempts to streamline the process.  The waiting periods have been long and extensive more times then she cares to count, but she doesn’t miss the days when her only contact had been hand written letters that were occasionally delivered to her with black lines smudging out text and constant reminders that every word she said or received had been read by someone else first.

When the instructions finish, there’s another pause.  A beep, and then--James is there.  His face blinking onto the screen from one instant to the next.  He’s tired and pale in the poor lighting of the communication hub, but he looks mostly at ease.  Smiling faintly at them and their ice cream.

He squints and leans closer to the screen to see what they have and laughs when he catches sight of the designs.  Familiar and well known.  “It’s not funny,” Miranda scolds, even as she memorizes the lines on his face.  The way his hair has started to grow back.  The set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head.  “We had to go to _four_ different stores because none of them had pineapple-coconut.”

“It’s not as common as you’d think,” James agrees.  He still looks tired.  Unreasonably so.  Don’t they _sleep_ in the Navy?  “Where’d you find it?”

“In a petrol station of all places,” Miranda sighs.  It took them nearly an hour of bouncing between stores to finally track the bloody thing down, and she’d be more upset about it if she could be bothered to care.  But it was the longest she and Thomas had spent in each other’s company since this whole mess had begun, conscious and able to mostly act like themselves.  It hadn’t been bad.

“We’ll have to add it to the list of suppliers,” James tells them, perfectly seriously.  There’s a coughing over James’ shoulder and he glances backwards, grin tugging at the corners of his lips.  

Apparently, even teasing, the phrasing was enough to earn him a warning.  Not that it means much of anything right now, James is smiling as he turns back to face them.  If the Navy thought they were operating an illegal pineapple-coconut Haagen-Dazs smuggling ring, it’d be better than what they’re currently managing by so many proportions.

James’ left hand isn’t visible in the camera.  He’s reaching for something the camera can’t quite pick up.  Leaning toward the screen with his body.  Miranda wonders if he’s touching the screen.  If his fingertips are tracing pixels, blurry and ill formed as they are, like he was caressing the softness of their skin.  She licks her lips.  Tastes the sweet lingering flavor of ice cream on her flesh.  

His eyes narrow a touch and Miranda knows as soon as he realizes that there’s a bruise on Thomas’ cheek.  He opens his mouth to ask, but Thomas cuts him off.  Redirecting in such a terribly manipulative way that Miranda feels her heart clench tight.  It wasn’t fair.

There are things that they try not to say to each other.  Try not to do.  Things that they know only cause pain.  They don’t decorate for the holidays, so whenever they’re separated there’s nothing to be missed.  They don’t say things like _wish you could have been there_ or _you should have seen…_

Thomas and her and James all had serious discussions about those phrases and why it only hurt to hear them.  Spurring guilt and turmoil that would never help anything.  But just as James is about to ask Thomas what happened, Thomas leans forward and touches the screen in a way Miranda knows James can’t see either.  Murmuring “I miss you,” in such a pain filled voice that James’ question is lost immediately.  

Miranda needs to avert her eyes.  She doesn’t want to see how James’ face crumbles.  Doesn’t want to understand the catch in James’ voice.  She already _knows._ They’re not supposed to say it because it hurts, and it always leads to the other party repeating it back.  “I miss you too.”  James’ voice is thick and heavy and filled with phlegm.

It’s Christmas Eve.  They had planned this one properly.  They had tried to make it right.  And even if Miranda can’t force herself to say it.  It’s true.   _James should have been here._  She takes a steadying breath to get her thoughts in order, and then redirects her eyes to the screen.  

She catches sight of herself in the small little window on the bottom right.  She looks tragic.  Her hair is sloppy, she isn’t wearing makeup, and she hasn’t slept right in ages.  This past week had been an endless nightmare of epic scheduling proportions.  She still isn’t sure she made it out entirely unscathed, but from her last update--Jo and her family were celebrating a very quiet and small low-key Christmas at the safe house.  Several of the others who were picked up during Anne’s raid also had family members staying as well.  The budget meetings for the end of year reports had been successful, the final charity drives to raise money for Open Borders’ continued operations had brought in a decent haul considering the publicity troubles Miranda had opened them up to, and _finally_ HR had found someone to replace Dylan.

Or rather, Max found someone to replace Dylan.  Augustus Featherstone had been her assistant, and she recommended him to HR for a promotion to Miranda’s.  It would be easier for HR to hire someone to assist Max than Miranda as it was, and Augustus knew Miranda and this business better than an outside hire in the first place.

When she heard the news Miranda nearly sobbed with relief.  On her next paycheck, Max will have a decent bonus.  Frankly, she earned it.  Miranda doesn’t know if she could have managed the past few weeks Open Borders without her.

James clears his throat.  Tongue flicking out past his lips as he looks down quickly.  Readjusts himself.  Looks back up.  He could still ask.  He _could._  But he’s smart enough to know that Thomas clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.  So instead, he says, “I don’t think I’ll be able to call tomorrow.”  Which they already knew.  Calls are infrequent as it is, especially around holidays.  He doesn’t need to tell them that.  Except then he asks, “Do you want to open your presents now?”  And no amount of _I miss yous_ compare to _this_ pain.  Miranda’s still not used to it, and it’s been more than two decades since she first lost the love of her life to military service and all its constraints.

This isn’t the first Christmas they’ve spent apart, and Miranda’s certain it won’t be their last.

Neither Thomas nor Miranda had noticed the carefully wrapped presents that were hidden inside one of the cabinets in the library that Miranda _always_ forgets is there.  James directs them to their spot with an amused glimmer in his eye, and Miranda’s glad he’s at least enjoying himself.  She’s not sure that she is.  

He used a green wrapping paper that’s thick and sturdy.  Candy-canes and sugar plums dance about it.  He’s purchased Thomas books, obviously.  If there’s one thing that Thomas always wants and always gets for Christmas--it’s books.  Miranda can tell what it is just by looking at the size and shape.  James isn’t particularly good at wrapping in the first place, and so there are strips of tape clumped up along the seams.  Edges folded awkwardly at the tops and bottom.  

Miranda’s certain she has two books as well, but there’s a box too.  So big it very nearly didn’t fit in the cabinet, and at least a stone in weight.  A casual shake doesn’t provide any additional details.  On the screen, leaning as close as he can so he can see them, James looks delighted.  She can almost imagine him sitting there beside them.  “Go on, open them.”  He loves this part.  Can hardly contain his enthusiasm.

Incapable of waiting even for a moment, Thomas tears into the first book’s paper with unrestrained joy.  It’s upside down when he finally frees it from the wrapping, but he turns it over with a twist of his wrist.  “ _Virus of the Mind,_ the new science behind the meme, by Richard Brodie,” Thomas reads out with a crescendo of excitement.  His other books are left forgotten for a moment as he opens it to the first page and starts reading.  

He always does this.  Like a cat with a laser.  Once his attention has been diverted to a book, it's almost impossible to pull him away.  Miranda feels her cheeks aching from smiling, and she hears James start to laugh at their lover’s so predictable behavior.  “It’s got mixed reviews,” James informs them.  Because of course he read the reviews.  “Some people say it’s brilliant, others say that Brodie spends too much time on trying to make it scientific and practical and that he’s being annoyingly pompous.”

It’s the kind of review that Thomas enjoys best.  Uncertain opinions.  No clear answer.  He relishes the chance of getting his hands into the source material and determining for himself what the truth is.  He’s nodding haphazardly toward James, but he’s still lost in the world of his book, already on the second or third page.  Lips moving around silent words.

Rolling her eyes at how entrenched her husband is, Miranda shares a moment with James instead.  He’s smiling so very fondly at them.  Clearly proud of himself for his successful purchase.  “Go on,” he encourages her next, and she debates whether she should open the box or the books first.  

Figuring the books might be the only things that can take Thomas’ attention away from his own, she goes for them.  Even though the box still sits by her knees.  The elephant in the room.  The one she really _wants_ to address first, because how can one not?  It’s unfairly distracting to her, even if Thomas doesn’t seem to have taken note of its existence at all.

She tries to focus on the book, but the box has her attention.  James smiles at her the whole while like he _knows._ He’s amused by her.  She sticks her tongue out at him like a child and he laughs bright and glorious.

The first book she opens is by C.B. Lewis.  Miranda hasn’t heard of the author before but the cover is fascinating.  Two young men, both looking opposite directions, but striking in appearance.  One blonde with a blue streak in his hair.  Turning it over she reads the back.  

Thomas makes a noise to her left.  Apparently the mere existence of another book is enough to distract him back to the real world.  He’s shuffled in so he’s pressed against her side.  Reading it the description out loud. “Badly wounded and on the run from his WWII Hungarian brigade, Janos Nagy stumbles through a temporal gateway to the future. Suddenly stranded in Manchester, England, 2041, Janos wants answers about a crazy world he doesn’t recognize.”

He tries to take the book from her but she swats at his hand.  “It’s mine, go back to your own,” she chides.  Years of practice defend her against the disturbingly hurt look her husband provides.  James is _still_ laughing at them all the way from Wherever He Is.

“You do have more, Thomas,” James tells her husband with endless affection.  

Thomas has the decency to at least look apologetic about it, though he does snatch another book from his stack and tear into the paper like a man on a mission.  Miranda barely catches sight of the title or the cover before Thomas is speeding through to the end.  Flipping through pages and reading the inside cover, checking the edition and printing house.

If James were here, Miranda would have given him his presents by now too.  They could have all taken turns opening and distracting thomas from the printed pages long enough to come up for air.  They’d have something nice playing on the stereo.  Maybe _Cry to Me_ by Solomon Burke.

They’d take turns dancing about the furniture.  Laughing and tripping over the knee high table--someone always cracked their shin against it every year without fail.  It was tradition.  Really.  They’d stumble into Peter Ashe’s Christmas party not long after, buzzed already from a day of high spirits, and have to regale to everyone how once again Thomas or Miranda had nearly killed themselves on that damn table. James always managed to avoid it.  Like he was preternaturally aware of the table that never moved, but was always exactly in the way whenever dancing started.

But...James had left so suddenly to return to duty, neither she nor Thomas had time to send him anything to open for Christmas.  Their mail would have been lost in the endless sorting rooms of the Navy.  The influx of presents during this season would drag everything down too.  They should have given his presents early.  Should have celebrated days ago.  But it all happened so fast and--

“--What’s this one?” Thomas asks.  He’s poking at the box at her side, and Miranda stares at it dumbly.  She wonders how long she’d been sitting there before Thomas had noticed her silence.  An inexcusable amount of time considering the circumstances.  Thomas pokes at it again.  He’s seconds away from picking it up and opening it himself, so she pulls it away from him.  

Scrunches her face up stink eyes him.  “Mine.”  He pouts dramatically, and makes an impatient movement with his hand.  Honestly.  Why would she even _want_ a child.  She’s married to one.  That said, she _slowly_ slides her thumb under the tape and _carefully_ starts to peel it back.  Mainly because the longer she takes the more incapable Thomas is at sitting still.  He’s all but rocking in his seat.  Leaning backwards and forwards as excitement drives him entirely.

At least for now, the crippling defeat of the past few days isn’t occupying his mind.  It’s the distraction that he really needed.  That they _both_ really needed.  She gets the first side untaped, and then starts in on the middle.  James makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, “Come on, Miranda, there’s no need to make him suffer.”

Rolling her eyes at their impatience, she finishes the rest of her task quickly enough.  It’s a sleek white box that reflects the light off the top it’s so shiny.  On it is a painted picture of what she can only assume is the present in question.

It’s a camera.

For a moment, Miranda can only stare at it.  Look at it dumbly as if it will suddenly be something else.  But when she thumbs open the flaps and opens the box properly, it’s exactly what it said it was.  A brand new Canon camera.  Equipped with a tripod, various lens options, additional memory cards, cleaning supplies, a bag to put it all in, and extensive zoom capabilities.

She doesn’t know what to say.

She looks up.  James’ good humor has faded away entirely.  It’s been replaced by a serious expression that she wishes he wouldn’t have to use right now.  She feels a pang in her heart and her fingers spasm around her the leather strap of the bag inside the box.

“Art relaxes you,” James says clearly.  Confidently.  Like he knows her more than she knows herself, and after all this time -- he probably does.  He certainly knows Thomas well enough to make him smile and beam with joy even when his heart is caving into his chest and he’s uncertain about their futures to an intolerable degree.  “Taking photos makes you happy.”

Unbidden, her mind starts to think about the different ways she could use the filters.  The different settings she could try.  She starts to consider lighting and flashes and possibilities.  She is Thomas, enraptured by the thing that gives her joy.  Miranda forces herself to look up.  To met the approximation of James’ eyes on the screen.  Knowing that the camera isn’t accurate and that they’re both looking away from each other, but it’s the best they can do.

“I never once regretted you taking a photo of me, Miranda,” James swears to her.  “Don’t you dare stop now.” She feels like she’s cried so much lately.  But her husband’s arms wrap around her and his lips touch her head and she clings to him even as she garbles out a thank you to their lover.

They’re running out of time now.  A quick glance at the clock and Miranda knows they have to end soon.  “You know we love you?” she asks, so grateful to be able to see James smile.  Nod his head.  

“I love you both too.” There are things they haven’t talked about.  No one’s mentioned the election or her case, or anything else that’s important.  But they only have a few minutes, and they still have a few presents wrapped.

“We’ll save them,” Thomas tells James firmly.  “For when you get back, we’ll open them and yours together.”  James looks ready to argue, but they really are out of time now.  He sighs, and agrees.

“Fine.  If you say so.  Just…” He doesn’t seem to know what to say.  Doesn’t seem to know if he wants to reveal their presents now, or have them open it, or perhaps it’s something else entirely.  Either way, he presses his fingers to the screen one final time.  “Merry Christmas Thomas...Miranda…”

“Merry Christmas, James.  Be safe,” they reply back.  Then, before they forget, they’re quick to wish their monitor glad tidings as well.  Thanking him for permitting and listening to the call and doing his job.  It’s the very least they can do.  As usual, whoever’s listening in doesn’t say a single word in response.  He’s not supposed to interfere with the call unless James starts to share secrets.  

The call ends before anyone’s ready for it, and the screen goes black.  The little green light on the camera fades out, and Thomas slowly closes out of the messaging program.  Closing his laptop and shoving it to the side.

Their ice cream is well and truly melted by now.  A total waste.  But Miranda would rather have all the ice cream she ever has in the future be melted and warm than not have James with her right now.

Every year, Peter invites them over for his annual Christmas party.  They laugh and cheer and rub shoulders with London society.  Peter’s daughter Abigail shows off how adult she’s become and tries to make a face at the wine she drinks while they all pretend that they didn’t notice her stealing it in the first place.

They’re not going to the party this year.  Not with Thomas’ face still bruised from Peter’s fist.  Though apparently Peter _had_ called and left a message to apologize.  Miranda thinks there’s a message from Abigail somewhere as well.  But she hadn’t listened to it and hadn’t wanted to.  

Thomas reaches for her hand, “John invited us over for dinner, said we should come even if it's late.”  It’s the first she heard about it, but anything is better than being in this house with it’s great empty space for the evening.  “You should bring it,” he says.  She looks at the camera.  She’s honestly not that sure she wants to, but...it’s a start at least.  Forcing a smile, she nods.  Might as well give it a try.

***

John and Madi live in quaint little two bedroom apartment in central london.  They use the spare bedroom as a glorified office, big desk crammed in there next to the full sized bed.  Madi tells them to just throw their coats off on the mattress, and to not worry about a thing.  

They’ve decorated.  Little red and green fairy lights strung around the walls.  There’s some tinsel streaming on the sides of photo frames.  There’s garland by the window sill.  John’s prancing about in a Santa hat, and he’s wearing an apron reading _Kiss me I’m Irish._  “You’re not Irish,” Miranda points out.

“And you shouldn’t kiss me,” John confirms, stealing a kiss on her cheek just as she passes under a sprig of mistletoe.

Amusement fills her heart and she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.  “Why John, I’m married.”

“So am I,” he flirts back shamelessly, waggling his brows and winking dramatically like he’s some sort of fiendish cartoon character.  She can see him now, with those little puppet things that children find so fascinating.  What were they called?   _Muppets!_  He’d be a good muppet.  Certainly has a personality that would blend well with the rest of muppet kind.

“He’s been assaulting anyone who walks under that all month,” Madi confides as Miranda joins her at the table.  Thomas is pouring them all glasses of wine and something smells utterly _divine_ in the kitchen.  

“Oh?  I haven’t gotten a kiss yet,” Thomas complains idly as he passes over a lovely red for Miranda to try.  She clinks her glass with his and then brings it to her mouth.  Inhaling its rich scent before rocking it a touch.  By the time she’s tasting it, she’s closed her eyes.  Relishing the warm and rich bouquet.  It’s fruity, but not too sweet.  Not dry in the least and quite frankly, perfection.

She opens her eyes to smile at her husband.  Watch as he takes his first sip and experience the pleasant taste for himself.  “In my defense,” John calls out from the kitchen, “I would have kissed him ages ago but he’s too bloody tall.  How the fuck am I supposed to reach him if his head’s in the fucking stratosphere?”

Then, because he’s still not done, John comes back out to join them.  Wiping his hands on a dish towel.  “For that matter, how do _you_ kiss him.  He’s a full head taller than you.”

“Heels, John.  It’s why God invented heels.” She lifts one foot as an example and John makes a truly disgusted sound in the back of his throat like he’s gagging on something foul.  

Thomas snatches his arm as he walks past and pulls him over to kiss his cheek.  “You could have just asked as well,” Thomas informs as John’s face blushes a brilliant red and Madi laughs boldly in his face.  Miranda snorts into her wine and is tempted to take a photo to send to James.  If only because he’d find John’s sudden shock to be uproariously humorous and just desserts most probably.  

There’s very little denying Thomas when he puts it in his mind to be domineering.  He knows perfectly well how to fluster those around him and he slides in close to John’s side, leaning down to whisper in John’s ear, “Go finish dinner,” before kissing the side of his head once more.  He turns to dismiss John and John is left staring at Thomas’ back like he has no idea what just happened.  

“Wouldn’t want it to burn,” Miranda adds, spurring John back into action.  Wisely, he retreats without another word.  Clearly not having expected to be called out on his tease in the first place.  He should know better after all this time.  Thomas is never one to back down to a challenge, no matter how innocently it was made.  “It’s a shame that we spoke to James first,” she tells her husband as he comes to sit on the arm of the cozy chair she’s appropriated.  “He’d have enjoyed that.”

“We’ll have to remember to tell him,” Thomas replies, utterly shameless.  “Apologies, Madi my dear, for taking advantage of your husband so.”

“He needs to be taken advantage every once and awhile,” Madi replies good naturedly. “Otherwise he’ll never know when to stop.”

“I heard that!” John calls out.

“I know!” Madi calls back.

The floor below them is having a good and proper Christmas party.  There’s music playing all the popular rendition of the endless carols, there’s intermittent cheering and conversation.  The words mold together into an endless buzz of nonsense, and it fills Madi and John’s apartment with the kind of background noise that could be considered comfortable.  Not too loud, not endless silence.  It’s rather nice.

Foot tapping to the beat of _Jingle Bell Rock,_ Miranda almost lets her mind slip off.  The warm and cozy apartment all but encouraging her to have a moment of distraction.  She’s half way toward daydreaming when she finally sees the tree.  “Oh my God.”  Needing to set her glass down, Miranda stands up from the armchair.

From behind her, Madi has started laughing hysterically and Thomas’s glass clinks onto the table as he hurries after her.  Miranda can hear John pulling his roast turkey from the oven, asking what was so funny even as Miranda gives into temptation and pulls her new camera from her purse.  

She opens it up and watches the lights flicker along the screen.  The battery’s been charged at a store charge, just enough to get her started.  The filters are standard and she hadn’t brought any of the accoutrements that came in the box.  Just the camera and a memory card.  

Lifting it up, she adjusts the zoom and taps over to a digital filter that casts the tree in a more yellow tone.  Snapping the photo, she takes a couple more in different filter settings.  One black and white, one sepia, one with an outside feature, one with an inside, one with a particularly fast shutter speed as well.  

They’re templates.  So she can compare and contrast them later and find out which one she did best.  When she’s done, she shows the photos to Thomas who wraps his arms around her waist, leaning over her shoulder to look.  His cheek rests along the side of her head, and his breath ghosts past her nose.  

The subject of her delight looked charming on film, and in reality it’s only more so.  Barely a meter in height (frankly, it’s probably even smaller than that), there are huge empty spaces where its needles should be, and it’s only holding onto one ornament.  A half smashed red one that might have once been a ball.  It looks sad and droopy, and it’s sitting in a pot of soil that looks like someone has desperately tried to breathe life into it but has failed miserably.  “That’s Charlie,” Madi explains once Miranda’s finished.

“Don’t make fun of Charlie!” John shouts out.

It’s impossible to not make fun of Charlie.  “Poor Charlie is half dead, John, what in God’s name did you do to him?”  Unable to help herself, Miranda touches the soil.  “You’ve drowned him.  You drowned Charlie that’s what you did.”

John re-emerges, hands on his hips.  “Dinner’s ready,” then, “How the fuck do you drown a tree?”  He’s leaning around them in a valiant attempt to see what Miranda saw, but it’s exactly as she said.  Miranda snatches John’s hand and puts it to the soil.  

“It shouldn’t be nearly this wet.”

“But he was dying,” John argues immediately.  “Look at him!”

Madi’s joined them now.  Standing on Miranda’s other side.   _We should set up the camera._ Miranda thinks suddenly. _Take a picture of the four of us._ All of them surrounding the saddest little tree Miranda’s seen all year.

“I _told_ you you were putting too much water in it,” Madi tells John, more than a little pride in her voice at being right.

“Tell me doctor,” Thomas asks so very, very, seriously.  “Can he be saved?”

It’s been ages since Miranda’s tried to resuscitate a dying plant, but she does her best to try and figure it out.  A quick scan of the pot revealed that there wasn’t an obvious water hole, which was the first problem.  Some fresh soil might be too much of a shock, but frankly Charlie was dead anyway.  She makes a list and starts reciting possible solution as Thomas trails a hand down her arm and interlocks their fingers.

Leading her to the table.  Thomas squeezes her hand as they approach and without even thinking about it, Miranda snaps a picture of if all.  Catching John and Madi just after he’d pulled out a chair for his wife.  She was sitting, her burgundy paisley hijab matching the rich colors of the tablecloth, the wine, the food.  All but glowing with fine reds and yellows. She’d reached up and taken John’s hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss in thanks.  He was smiling down at her.  As if all the world could fade away and so long as he had her, he would be content.

Miranda loves it at once.  Makes a note to print and frame it after she touches up the colors.  She could bring the blues out from the cupboards around them.  She could help darken the earthy tones of the floor.  

As for the food...John’s got a feast prepared.  There’s a whole turkey that’s been cooked to a perfect golden brown, a variety of vegetables both steamed and roasted, and not a potato in sight.

 Photographically and gastronomically, it looks wonderful.  Miranda sets her camera to the side, flicking it off so the lens can stay protected while they eat.  Even though Thomas seems to keep looking for the missing potatoes with a curious gleam in his eyes.  "What no potatoes?"

"Fuck off," John grunts out without any heat.

"John has a vendetta against the spud family," Madi explains as she reaches for some meat.

"How can you have a vendetta against--"

"--How, exactly, do you drown a tree?” John cuts in, turning to Miranda with something very close to pleading in his voice.  

Taking pity on him, Miranda starts to explain.  It takes nearly ten minutes to explain the need to maintain a proper soil water level and pH level.  She points out the flaws in his pot and even quizzes him on how frequently he was watering the poor tree.  

By the time John’s finally accepted that he doesn’t have a green thumb, nor anything scarcely recognizing a green thumb, Miranda’s plate is full and fresh new flavors have graced her tongue.  The seasoning is a touch heavy on the garlic, but otherwise John’s turkey is delicious.  Madi offers her a white white to try, but the red had been so good earlier she doesn’t feel inclined to switch.

It’s Christmas.  She can do what she wants.

“Where did you learn to cook John?” Miranda asks as she tries some of the asparagus.   _Perfection._

“Not the Navy, that’s for sure,” John huffs.  It’s not an answer, and he doesn’t actually provide one.  Miranda waits, chewing her delightful asparagus and thinking more about her wine, only half aware that he never actually said anything helpful at all.  Madi glances at her husband from the corner of her eye, and then eventually shakes her head subtly.  Apparently it’s not a question Miranda should expect an answer for.  

 _Silver Bells_ starts playing downstairs, and that provides for a few moments of distraction as well.  Apparently John hates it, and it’s far easier to tease him about that then it is to press in on questions about cooking that are apparently sensitive.  Madi explains that she never really cared much for Christmas songs growing up, mainly because she never saw the point, but that she liked this one for its rhythm.  The fact that it drives John nearly to distraction only makes it better.

Muslims don’t celebrate Christmas, at least not the way that Christians do.  It’s just another day of the week, and the fact that John _does_ celebrate is the only reason their little flat is decorated as it is.  “I had many Christian friends growing up, though,” Madi explains.  “Sometimes my family would have a small dinner just because that’s what the other families were doing.  A get together rather than a Christmas party.  It’s an excellent day to get Chinese food.”

“I didn’t even know Chinese restaurants were open on Christmas Eve,” Miranda mutters to Thomas.  

“Apparently it’s a captive audience,” John whispers back from across the table. “I didn’t know either, but it’s true.  They’re always open.”

It’s a pretty image to think about.  Madi and her family sitting together and eating Chinese food.  She says they used to watch movies or play games, and she can imagine some of the people from the Islamic Center gathered around with cards or backgammon or dice set up.  Perhaps pictionary or top trumps.  

 _I Wish You a Merry Christmas,_ starts up down below, and Madi rolls her eyes toward the heavens as John starts to sing the song badly on her right.  “How do you like your camera?” she asks, taking a forkful of carrots and putting them to good use as a stopper in John’s mouth.  Her husband protests awkwardly, but takes the hint even as Thomas starts snickering into a napkin.

“It’s lovely so far, but I haven’t had a chance to really look into it.”

Pulling the fork from his mouth, John switches it to the hand farthest from Madi, asking “James got it for you, right?” while Madi tries to get her fork back.  “No, it’s mine now.”

She takes his in return.  They play fight briefly for ownership of the fork, and Madi wins when she threatens to stab him with it if he kept it up.  He backs off immediately.  Settling down and sitting nice and proper.  His santa hat sliding lower on the side of his head.

“Yes,” Miranda agrees, glancing briefly at Thomas.  

He’s not one to be the life of the party or a table, preferring usually to observe the proceedings and interject when he can craft an argument or share a particularly amusing anecdote.  It seems now is no different.  He’s at ease.  Watching them all with a fond expression.  Listening as Madi nudges John, “Did you know that Miranda took the photos that hang in Open Borders?”

“What the ones on the stairs going up?  With the water and things?” John’s eyes are an electric blue.  The kind of blue that would look stunning in a black and white photo where the only color is John’s blue eyes.  Staring bright and bold right at the person looking back.  They’re captivating and mesmerizing.  “No shit?  You’re really fucking good.”

“John,” Thomas sighs.  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a deplorable mouth?”  It’s asking for a lewd comment, but John just leaves it at a smile that’s more sinful than any comment that could be made.  It’d be a good picture, but Miranda’s taken enough photos for one evening.  

Even if her fingers itch to pick up her camera, take a photo.  Fill her life with good and proper pictures that she doesn’t mind the world seeing.  Be the respectable person that people love and respect.  

She lifts a napkin to her mouth and wipes firmly.  Stares down at the faint trail of lipgloss she’s left behind.  “Excuse me…” she stands up and Thomas tries to catch her eye, but she doesn’t want to meet it.  

Just wants to have a few moments alone.  Without anyone there to listen in or ask if she’s all right.  She makes her way to the bathroom and closes the door behind her.  There are two towels hanging on the towel rack.  Both a light shade of pink.  

She tries to imagine John wrapping a bright pink towel around him when he’s finished bathing, and smiles at the idea.  At the thought of a second towel being used to wrap about his head -- letting his long curly hair dry at its own pace.  

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, Miranda hugs her arms around her body.  She breathes in the rich smell of potpourri that she can always smell on Madi and John when they’re out in public.  She thinks it’s one of the endless crafts that John keeps himself busy making when his mind starts spinning.

Maybe that’s why he cooks.  Or cleans.  The house is spotless.  Everything is just so.  John doesn’t even have a proper job.  He doesn’t get paid at the Center, so he volunteers mostly, or at least that’s what Miranda thinks he does.

There’s a knock at the door and she jerks her head up.  “Miranda…?”  It’s John.  Quiet and gentle.  She doesn’t know if she wanted it to be Thomas or not.  Rather feels foolish for feeling so upset in the first place.  She doesn’t know why she’s upset.  She ate ice cream, spent the day with Thomas, got to see James, had a lovely dinner and good company.  

The door opens slowly, and John meets her eyes.  The silly hat is gone.  The apron’s nowhere in sight.  Just him in his blue collared shirt that lays untucked over his white-washed jeans.  He steps inside and closes the door behind him, and she apologizes.  Makes to stand up, but he’s waving his hand, walking towards her and sitting down slowly.

It takes him a moment to get to the ground.  Stretching his bad leg out so the prosthetic doesn’t jam strangely.  He’s careful with it, ever cognizant of it even.  She wonders how long it took him to get that way.  “I know I’m over compensating a bit,” John mumbles awkwardly.  He’s got a bracelet on his left wrist.  A hand woven thing with strings that hang down low.  He tugs on them absently.  Twisting them and pulling and twisting the other way.  “With the lights and the decorations and everything.  I'm sorry, Miran--”

“--It’s fine, John,” Miranda cuts him off.  “It’s not that.  I don’t...I don’t know why I’m upset.  I’ll be out in a moment.  I--”

“Miranda.” She closes her mouth.  Meets his eyes.  “It’s okay to not be okay.”

“Sounds like something my staff would say.”

“It is something your staff said.  Max told me that the first day I met her.”

This doesn’t happen.  Peter had been right about that.  People don’t become friends with their clients like this.  They don’t introduce them to their wives or their wives’ companies so their employees become friends and everyone becomes close.  “I didn’t want Thomas to take your case at first.”

John doesn’t look particularly surprised.  “What changed your mind?”

Seeing John in the hospital.  Watching him as he lay on that bed, staring blankly up at Thomas.   _I don’t understand,_ he’d whispered.  Confused.  Uncertain.   _They think I did it?_ Seeing him again and again.  It took nearly a month before it settled into place.  And that was only when the government decided he’d received enough time in hospital and could be relocated to the Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester, Essex.  

Even then, he’d been terrified.   _Please believe me...I...I didn’t do this._

“You were innocent, John.”  There are things you just _know_ when you work in the law.  “I’m glad he took it.”

“Yeah?”

“Peter would have gotten you and Laith life in prison for treason.”

“Peter.”  Dislike goes both ways, and John isn’t fond of him at all.  He says the name with a kind of barely masked discontent that’s maybe slightly more emphatic than Miranda had expected.  “He stopped by the Center the other day.”

“For Thomas?”

John’s shaking his head.  “Just to say his piece.  Remind us that just because we got off earlier doesn’t mean we’ll do it again.  That he knows we _weren’t_ innocent, and it’s only a matter of time before we get picked up for something else.”  Something cold and heavy sinks to the bottom of Miranda’s stomach.  This time, when he smiles, it looks unbearably fake.  “Spent a Christmas in prison once.  Figured if this was going to be my last one, I wanted it to be perfect.”

“You’re not going back inside.”  She doesn’t know how many times she has to say it for him to believe it.  

“New and compelling evidence,” John says quietly.  The words are specific.   _Very_ specific.  She swallows.

“John…”

“Peter told us at the Center.  The judge is going to order a retrial.”  She feels her breath coming in short bursts.  “Laith...he wanted to run.  Get the fuck out of the UK, but you know what’ll happen if we do.”

It will be presumed guilt.  They’ll be hunted down.  No bail application.  No chance of victory.  They’ll prove that they have something to hide.  Miranda slides off the toilet seat and wraps her arms around John’s body.  He stayed.  He stayed here in the UK, and he’s going to go on trial.  

_Jesus Christ._

“We’re going to fight this.”

A loud fist hammers on the door to the apartment.  John doesn’t flinch, but she does.   _He knew._ “Peter said they were coming tonight,” John confirms quietly.  He obviously hadn’t told Madi.  She’d not looked stressed or out of sorts or anything.  

She’ll be opening the door now.  Be told what’s about to happen.  Miranda holds John as tight as possible.  He holds her back.  They can hear Madi raising her voice.  Thomas is arguing.   _Oh God._ "I'm sorry for this Miranda.  That you're going through this.  That--"

“--We’re going to fight this, John.” She tells him again.  “We’re going to fight this and we’re going to win again.  You’re innocent.”

She pulls away, cups his face with his hands.  The shouting’s getting louder.  “You’re innocent.”  John’s terrified.  He’s trembling within her grip.  Something smashes.  Someone screams.  The music downstairs has been turned off.  Everyone in the building listening to what’s happening.  “You’re innocent,” Miranda repeats.  The bathroom door is shoved open harshly.  “You’re innocent.  You’re innocent.”  Rough hands from a faceless figure grab John’s body and jerk him away from Miranda, throwing him face first onto the ground.  His arms are pulled behind his back and Miranda’s shoved into a wall.

“John?” She tries to get his attention again, to hold it so he knows.  He has to _know._  “John!”

But John’s striking blue eyes are wide and terrified and he’s not looking at anything except the officers that have come to arrest him for a terrorist attack that he had never been a part of.


	10. Chapter 10

Madi is inconsolable.  She sits on the floor by Charlie, knees drawn to her chest, sobbing.  Thomas stands by the table, he’s holding Miranda’s camera and pressing buttons.  “Thomas?”  Miranda asks.  

“I took photos of everything,” he explains.  There’s a video on my mobile.  But I had to...just in case…”  It was all perfectly legal.  Perhaps a bit rougher than strictly necessary, but considering what John had been arrested for...the process _had_ been legal.

“He needs a barrister who can fight for him,” Miranda says quietly.  Madi is still crying.  She hasn’t moved.  Hasn’t looked up.  Hasn’t reacted to what Miranda is saying at all.  Just crying.  Someone needs to be called.  Her parents maybe?  Or the others at the Center?  There has to be someone who can help her.

“They can’t start the trial until they first convict me of malpractice,” Thomas insists firmly.  “They have to prove that I somehow had too great a conflict of interest to represent John in court, and that I somehow influenced the outcome of the court.”  He’s lost any kindness or gentle tease.  “Even if I lose my ability to practice that doesn’t mean they have enough to actually go to trial.  The prosecution would need to prove that somehow my having a relationship with James provided me with information that I didn’t disclose to them, and therefore they couldn’t prove that John was guilty.”

It’s not the defense’s job to prove that their client is innocent.  It’s the prosecution’s job to prove that they’re guilty.  This would have been worse if it had been the other way around.  But it wasn’t.  Miranda casts a glance at Madi, and lowers her voice. “Peter told John that both he and Laith were going to be arrested today.”

“Peter told...how did he even know?  No.  That doesn’t make any sense.  I didn’t defend Laith, I defended John.  Why would Laith be arrested too?”

She doesn’t have an answer for that.  She just shrugs helplessly and watches as Thomas’ face grows dark red.  His eyes cut towards Madi, still crying on the floor.  Nostrils flaring, Thomas shoves his hand into his pocket.  Pulling out his mobile and tapping across the screen.  “Do you really think calling Peter right now is the--”

“--I’m not calling _Peter,”_ Thomas replies harshly.  Bringing the phone to his ear, he waits on beat, and then another.  Someone clearly picks up.  “Jack, I need you to do something.  And if you pull it off _you’ll_ be the next political superstar being voted in for MP, not me.”  He waits a beat.  Lips spreading into a smile.  “How do you feel about going to war with the Navy?”

Apparently, Jack very much feels like going to war with the Navy, because Thomas grin turns vicious and wicked and Miranda feels something very much like hope growing in her chest.

***

Thomas first met Jack Rackham when they were in chambers together as pupils.  After Thomas moved on to the Navy, Jack had stayed behind, joining chambers full time.  He Jack had a knack for the unorthodox, and an encyclopedic knowledge on all things that caught his interest.  Flipping sides whenever it pleased him, Jack never quite found what he excelled at.  Prosecution or defense.  He was very good at both, but Miranda never knew him to be the superstar barrister that he could have been if only he’d had the right set of briefs go his way.

A lifelong agnostic, Jack was the epitome of _nothing proven, nothing certain._  He liked facts.  Cold hard, irrefutable facts.  And when he had them?  He flew.

Joining Thomas’ campaign as his political analyst had only taken half of his time away from chambers.  His monthly retainer kept his clerk happy, and his relationship with Thomas made sure that Jack always came first when it came to interesting, yet delicate, cases.  That he was Thomas’ very good friend only helped when it came to how hard Jack was willing to fight.

“Trust me,” Thomas tells Madi as he leads her and Miranda up the stairs to Jack’s flat.  “He’s the best.”  Not because his case record reflected it, but because when it came to matters of loyalty and sheer out of the box thinking--Jack would do anything for his friends.  And he had yet to let them down in any capacity.  

Thomas hits the door with the meaty side of his fist.  A necessary measure given how impossible it is to hear anything once inside.  Even as it is, they barely hear Jack shout _it’s open!_ Twisting the knob, they go in.  Madi stumbles to a stop only a few paces past the entrance.  Miranda can understand the surprise.  The flat is filled with so many books Miranda has always privately expected it to combust into flames one night and that’s how the great Jack Rackham would go.  Death by fire by books.  What a headline.

“You _need_ a bigger flat,” Miranda informs him the moment she sees him emerge behind a stack of books as tall as he is.  If it’s not a fire it’ll be crushed to death by the collected works of William Shakespeare.  She doesn’t know how he lives like this.  As it is, she’s amazed the floor hasn’t caved in under the immense weight of his research.

“I need a bigger library,” Jack replies.  He opens his arms wide.  “Madi.”

“Jack.”  They’ve met before of course.  Interacted around the same people if not directly with each other more often than not.  Madi’s prepared more than a few statements for the press with Jack’s involvement.  That doesn’t mean they’ve ever been friends.  Or something approaching friendship.  

She still embraces him when he approaches.  Lets him rub a hand on her back for a moment before he steps aside and hurries them through to what might have been a kitchen at some point but appears to have been taken over by the entire history of Russia and the Soviet Union.

“Just move the Tolstoy to the side,” Jack tells Miranda when she tries to find a place to sit.  The bench in question looks like it belongs in a garage rather than a flat, but it seats two and Miranda takes a small bit of pleasure in moving the books over.  Jack turns around.  “Tell me what happened.”

They tell him everything.  John’s meeting with Peter, Peter’s warning to him and Laith about the arrest.  Madi called Laith’s wife when they were on the way to Jack’s--but no one had come for Laith.  He’d waited all night, and no one had come for him.  So why arrest John?  Why tonight?  

“They did it tonight to buy time,” Jack explains as he pinches four glasses of varying sizes between his fingers and sets them on top of what looks like a Britannica World History.  He pours them all some scotch, though Madi doesn’t take hers.  Just sits on the former home of Tolstoy.  Staring at Jack as if she couldn’t understand a word he’d said.  “It’s Christmas tomorrow, the court’s closed.  I can’t make a bail application until the 27th at least.  You didn’t get a letter from the Bar Standards Board?” he asks Thomas next.  

“Could have been sent and lost with the rest of the holiday mail, you know it runs slow this time of year.”

“Yes, and so do they.  They’ll argue that they did everything right and gave the proper notification, and meanwhile our boys sit in jail for forty-eight hours because no judge will hear their case until then.  They’re stalling.”

“Why?” Madi’s voice trembles as she speaks.  Her fingers squeeze her arms nervously.  

Jack gulps back his liquor with a single toss of his head.  “Do we know where they’re likely to try him?” It’s a question that Miranda honestly hadn’t given much consideration to.  “Before he was active military, a court martial made sense, and when it became clear that he was innocent there was no need for a civilian trial.  But he's not in the military anymore.  Is he going to be tried again in a court martial?  Or given a civilian trial this time?  I don’t think there’s any precedent for this.  And if _we_ don’t know where it’s going to be, then chances are the court doesn't either.  Like I said...they’re buying time.”

He ducks behind a terrifying tower of paperbacks, returning with a notebook and a pen.  Miranda drinks her scotch and then reaches for Madi’s.  Finishing it when it’s clear she has no interests in drinking even a drop.  “First thing’s first.  What was James’ involvement in the case to begin with?”

This time, it’s Thomas who drinks down the scotch.  Refilling his glass a second time and taking another large drink.  He swirls the fluid in his mouth for a moment.  Swallowing thickly before answering.  “He’d be there...sometimes...if I was discussing the case at home.”

“Can anyone attest to that?”

“I can,” Miranda admits softly.  “And Peter.”

“Peter.”  Jack says it with no small amount of disdain and he scowls as he makes a note of it on his pad.  The name’s quickly becoming a curse on their tongues.  “So the same person who tipped John and Laith off is the same person who can attest to you having committed malpractice, and the same person who...what does he get out of this?”

“Pardon?”

“Why tell John and Laith to run, I don’t understand.  What’s the benefit of that to him?  Best case scenario you get bad press for a while and nothing comes of it.  Worst case scenario, you’re charged with aiding, abetting, and colluding with a terror operation in the United Kingdom and put some years in for your efforts.  That’s fine--”

“--That’s _not_ fine!” Miranda snaps.  She feels as though she’s the only person who understands the logic in that.  Who understands the gravity of what Jack’s saying.  Thomas doesn’t seem at all bothered by what Jack’s been saying, and Madi’s been upset since John’s been taken away, but no more than that.  And _it’s not fine._

Jack’s mouth fails to produce another word properly.  He gapes awkwardly at her before nodding.  “No, I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.  I was just thinking in Peter’s point of view, of course it’s not fine. That’s not what I meant.  What I meant was--”

“--What does Peter gain from me going to prison?”  Thomas’ hand touches Miranda’s, and she’s not comfortable with this conversation.  She’s not okay with the hypothetical.  She’s not able to imagine it in the abstract, she’s far too firmly entrenched in reality, and her reality’s telling her that John’s spending Christmas Eve and Christmas in jail and her husband may well be joining him shortly.

The trouble with an artistic mind, is how easy it is to imagine what something would look like.  She sees Thomas being handcuffed in her mind.  Sees him being locked away.  Sees him on the opposite side of the glass barrier.  Sees him beaten and battered, because things _happen_ in prison.  Especially to outed gay politicians who are far too pretty for their own good.  “I can’t do this.”  

_It’s okay to not be okay._

“It’s _not_ okay.”

She shakes her head.  She feels as if she can’t breathe.  The towers of books are walls that are far too close together.  The table’s too close.  The thoughts are too encroaching.  She can’t be here.  She just _can’t._ She needs distance.  She needs distance between herself and this, she needs to find that balance that’s been held at bay for so long.

Miranda stands.  She hears something smash.  Doesn’t know what.  The glass maybe.  She can’t remember where she put it.  It doesn’t matter.  Someone says her name.  She flees.  Running away is better.  Better than this.  Her shin cracks against something.  A stack of books or a table or something, she doesn’t know what.

She’s falling before she knows what’s happening.  One hand stretched out to catch herself.  Someone shouts, and her hand finds purchase on a leaning stack of history.  It shifts beneath her hand, and she hits the ground hard.  Something sharp hits her head only moments after, and--

  
  
  


 

 

“--What happened?” Jo asks.  She’s sitting on her bed.  On her own bed in her own room, and Miranda’s sitting in a big blue beanbag, holding one of Jo’s stuffed bears to her chest. There’s a spectacular bruise on Miranda’s face.  The cut had been under her hairline, but the bruise still reaches her forehead and spreads toward her brow.  

Jo doesn’t like eye contact these days.  Her parents had said it had never been a problem before, but it’s a problem now.  She keeps her head ducked more often than not, and Miranda can’t blame her in the slightest.  Eyes are awful things.  And they _see_ awful things too.  

Miranda rubs absently at the bruise, sighing as she shakes her head.  She’d tried to cover it up with makeup, but there’s no hiding the swelling.  Some things you just can’t hide away in plain sight.  Sometimes, she wonders if she even wants to.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Miranda says softly.  

It’s a calculated move, and Jo responds the way Miranda expects her to.  Frowning at the line of bears she’s made on her bed, knocking them over one by one so they’re flat on their backs, then scowling at Miranda with a too-mature expression full of disatisfaction.  “Do you believe me?”

“I always believe you,” Miranda replies.  The bear in her arms is a fuzzy brown thing.  It’s got button eyes and a velvety nose.  When the ceiling light shines on it, the fur looks gold.  Jo doesn’t have a preference when it comes to her toys.  She likes anything soft.  But most people have bought her bears and so she has a sloth of them.  

“Why?” Jo asks.  She lines her bears up once again.  Knocking them over from left to right.  Watching as they fall like chips in a row.  Or prisoners on an execution line, waiting for their turn.

“I’m not your doctor.  I’m not your parent.  My job isn’t to help you do anything at all.  Not unless you want something.  And if I don’t listen, how do I know what you want?”

“Doesn’t mean you believe me.”

She’s a smart girl.  Even with her head tucked down and her no-eye-contact.  Her social skills devolving to something far less advanced than would be expected for someone of her age.  She talks slowly and quietly, and Miranda learns that talking to the bear instead of Jo tends to help Jo talk back.  So they don’t look at each other, and instead, Miranda smiles as she realizes that Jo understands her job better than Jo’s parents do.  

“What do you think happened?” Miranda asks the bear.  The bear’s button eyes stare back at her.  She moves the bears hands about so it looks like it’s thinking, and Miranda hears Jo huff from across the room.  She can’t really see what Miranda’s doing with the bear, but it’s obvious she’s paying attention.  She knocks her own bears down one by one by one.  

“Looks like you got punched.”

Yes.  And if the papers get a good look at her, that’s exactly what they’ll print.  She can see the headline now, _Disgraced Minister Beats Wife!_ It will be very dramatic, and it will take more time away from what’s actually important, and Miranda has no patience for any of it.  “That’s not what happened,” Miranda tells Jo seriously.

“S’what it looks like.”

“Are things always what they seem?” Jo doesn’t have an answer to that.  But she hits her bear far harder than she had before, and it goes tumbling off her bed.  They both look at the poor bear, and Jo doesn’t go to pick it up.  Just looks at it.  As if she’s not sure how it ended up there at all.  “I have a friend,” Miranda explains.  She sets her own bear down, and carefully gets out of the beanbag.  Scooping up Jo’s lost stuffed animal, she places it back in line with the others.  “I wasn’t looking where I was going on Christmas Eve, and I tripped in his flat.  He had this big book loitering someplace it shouldn’t have been and it hit me right here.”  

Bending down, she shows Jo the spot on her head.  The cut’s been sutured closed, but the bruising is spectacular beneath her dark hair, and her makeup can only hide so much of her face.  Jo squints as she looks at it.  As though she’s plotting it to memory.  “What book was it?”

_“Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady.”_

“Well which one then?” It takes Miranda a moment to understand, but then she laughs.

“That’s the whole title of one book.   _Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady.”_

It’s obviously not a satisfactory answer.  “That’s stupid,” Jo declares, and frankly, Miranda cannot agree more.  

“It’s the longest novel in the English language.  Over one million words.”

“Even more stupid.  Why'd you need all them words? Can’t you just say it in less?” It’s a solid argument, and one that Miranda doesn’t have nearly enough fondness for the text to argue on.  She remembers trying to read it once or twice and losing interest less than halfway through.  Thomas, she thinks, actually finished it.  It exists in the upper shelves of their library with all the other books that he’s read once and never wishes to look at again.  The kind of thing that people will notice on very rare occasions and nod their heads at the pretentiousness of it all.

That Jack had it on the top of a stack likely meant quite the opposite.  Miranda wonders if he read it often.  Reveling in language that went on and on and on, showing no signs of stopping or even cohering to a solid justifiable point.  She can’t think of any good lines from the story that she can quote for Jo, nor even a suitable description that does the book justice.

Considering she just brained herself on the damn thing, she doesn’t think that’s entirely her fault either.  “Do you like to read?”  From the state of Jo’s room, it’s difficult to say.  Every child has books of some sort collected here or there.  Just because her room doesn’t necessarily have hordes doesn’t mean she dislikes the practice.

Still, Jo shakes her head and goes back to poking at her bears.  Miranda walks over to the back she dropped off before she’d settled in the beanbag, pulling out a wrapped present just for Jo.  “It’s a few days late for Christmas,” she supplied gently.  “But I wanted to get you something.”

Jo doesn’t reach to take it from her, and Miranda doesn’t expect her to.  She just sets it on the bed next to the girl and returns to her beanbag.  Settling in as best she can and pulling out her sketchbook.  If Jo doesn’t want to talk to her, then she isn’t going to push her for information.  

Augustus has ensured that her schedule is neatly organized and put in order.  She has another hour she can spend here, before she needs to cross town for a meeting with Pastor Lambrick.  Four hours after that, there’s a staff meeting at Open Borders to discuss the focus and goals for the start of the next quarter.  After that she’s off to Jack’s to see how things went with John.

Thomas’ letter from the Bar Standards Board arrived on the 27th.  Two full days after John’s arrest, and the first day Jack had been told that no court would hear John’s bail application until the following Monday.  Apparently there was a backlog due to the holidays.  John was going to be held in custody until his bail application was made, and there was no way at all to advance the schedule.  

The only thing they _could_ do was prepare the case.  

In the absence of things to do in her personal life, all the avenues being handled by others, Miranda saw no trouble whatsoever in applying herself dutifully to her job.  It’s what she’s good at, and it's what Jo needed.  

Still, it doesn’t stop her from absently drawing a picture of John and James from memory.  From one of the few photographs she’s seen of them when they were both active servicemen.  Smiling on the side of a Naval ship.  John’s hair so very very short by comparison to his current mess of curls.  After several moments of silent sketching, Jo finally reaches for her present.  

Starts peeling the tape off the package and revealing a sketch pad of her own.  It even has a set of pencils, both colored and otherwise.  “Not good at drawing,” Jo tells Miranda quietly.

“That’s what the second book’s for,” Miranda replies.  

Jo nudges the pad and pencils over and examines the book hidden beneath.  A book filled with colored pictures of famous works of impressionism, splatter art, and surrealism.  Jo bites at her bottom lip as she turns the pages.  Looking at abstract images of strange hounds and splashes of color.

“Everyone’s good at drawing,” Miranda says.  She doesn’t look up from where she’s catching the shading around James’ arms.  Giving form to his uniform.  “The more expensive the medium and the more you pretend that it’s got an inherent value over something, the more people will pay attention to it.  But that doesn’t mean that those are any more intricate than what you can make.”

She’s got the book turned to one of Picasso’s self-portraits.  Big eyes and long features.  Strange cuts to the hair and dark gloomy tones.  Miranda’s seen what Jo can do.  She knows Jo can do exactly that, if not so much better.  “If you like it, it’s good.  And you never have to show anyone, so long as you don’t want to.”

Jo’s fingers trail over the great twists and turns of a spirally design.  Miranda can’t recall it’s name.  But it’s blue and green and it looks like something she saw in a museum once.  It probably is.  “How do I draw like you do?” Jo asks her softly.  “All real and like?”

“You just keep doing it.  Over and over again.  Until it eventually comes out right, and you know it’s exactly what you meant to do.”

For a moment, Miranda thinks that Jo might ask her another question.  Might try to draw it in more, but she doesn’t.  She just sets her books and pencils to the side and starts back at the bears.  Poking them so they fall over.  At least they’re not falling off the bed anymore.  

They stay like that in silence for a time.  Listening as people move about the house.  There are annoyed little birds fluttering along the cable lines.  A dog barks off in the distance, and Jo flinches.  Bites her lip so hard, Miranda thinks she might tear it or cry.  She doesn’t, though.  Just squeezes the paw of her bear and tries not to look upset.  

It’s far too mature for a girl Jo’s age.  “Jo…?” Miranda asks.

“My parents’re fighting…” Jo tells her softly.  It doesn’t sound like anyone’s fighting now, but Miranda knows that that’s not always going to be the case.  And clearly, it isn’t.  

Telling Jo it’s not her fault won’t ease her fears.  Telling her that they love her doesn’t matter.  She won’t believe it, no matter how true it is.  “What can I do to help?” Miranda asks.  

There are running shoes next to the bed that Jo hasn’t touched.  There are bags of new clothes that her mother bought her that she hasn’t gone near.  Tags are still affixed to most of the gifts she’s been given.  From what her parents had told Miranda, Jo just sits on her bed and she doesn’t do anything.  Doesn’t come out unless they tell her to.  Doesn’t speak unless spoken to.  Doesn’t want to see her friends or play.  

It’s too much, too soon.

Miranda had tried to explain it to them.  Tried to put it into words so they could see, and while they had accepted Miranda’s advice, they had every right to want to bring her home.  Bring her back to their place of sanctuary.  No matter that the very place she’d been taken from was only a few blocks away.  And that you have to pass the school whenever you need to collect groceries.  

A transition team had worked with the family and explained everything that they could, but at the end of the day human nature says that comfort can only be found at home.  And so here they are.  And they’re fighting.  “Can you make me better?” Jo asks.

Miranda wants to say _no._ She can’t snap her fingers and create a version of Jo that her parents will suddenly not see as the damaged child they received.  She wants to tell Jo the absolute truth.  But there’s a difference between telling the truth and crushing a child that’s already fighting as hard as they can.  “I can my best.  But I’m not always the best at everything.” Jo’s face twists up.  She starts collecting her bears.  One by one.  Pulling them to her chest so she has five bears stacked between her arms.  She scrambles backwards, crablike, until she is in the corner of the room.  Sitting on her mattress as far back as she can.  

“They don’t like me…” Jo whispers.  

“Why do you say that?” Miranda needs to force herself to stare at her sketchbook.  Force her voice to remain quiet and calm and inquisitive.  Force her very posture to remain relaxed.  She gets to the line of John’s nose.  Not quite getting the angle right. “Jo?”

“They said they were mad, cause I didn’t do what I was told.” It comes out in a rush.  Words slurring together, and Jo’s face is pressed so tight into her bears.  Miranda makes a note of what Jo said in the margins of her page.  She doesn’t look up.  Doesn’t try to force the girl to keep on.  Jo’s shaking now.  Starting to cry.  

Miranda can see the hitching shoulders and the shaking limbs, and she needs to swallow thickly.  “Who said that?  Your parents?” Pushing a child is hard.  It’s so very very hard.  Jo’s sobs are getting louder, and Miranda knows that she’ll need to stop for the day sooner rather than later.  

“No,” Jo cries.  “The _witch._ ”

It’s not what Miranda had been expecting.  The Witch.  She thinks back to all of the documents that she saw previously, the testimonies by the other girls.  The statements they got from those who had been arrested.  She doesn’t remember this phrase.  Doesn’t know what it might be about.  “Who’s the witch?” she asks gently.

But they’re done for the day, and she knows it in her heart.  Jo is crying too hard, and there’s nothing that Miranda can do for right now.  Her parents rush to the door and Miranda excuses herself to let them and one of the aides who is assisting through the transition talk to Jo and make sure she’s all right.

Miranda steps out onto the front steps of the house, listening with one ear as Jo starts screaming in her bedroom, and dialing Anne from memory.  “What is it?”  Anne asks in lieu of greeting.

“Have you ever heard of someone called ‘the witch’?” Dead silence on the other end.  Miranda waits.  Listens as Anne breathes roughly through the line.  

Then, finally, Anne barks out, “Where are you right now?”

“Jo’s home.”

“When are you going back to the office?”

“It’ll take me some time, I’m not allowed to drive and I don’t have a car.  My ride won’t be back for at least half an hour.”

“Why aren’t you allowed to drive?”  Miranda’s just about to explain the head injury and the doctors and the book, but Anne doesn’t wait for a response.  “Just stay there, I’ll come get you.  Bugger all.”  Then the line goes dead and Miranda is caught staring at her phone, wondering what on earth just happened.

Then, before she can think to call Thomas and Augustus and let them know her change in plans, she gets a text from Jack.

_Just spoke to John.  What a piece of work._

She sends back a series of question marks, but he never responds.

It feels as though everyone knows something that she doesn’t. It’s not a feeling she appreciates in the slightest.


	11. Chapter 11

Anne isn’t happy in the least when she pulls up to Jo’s house fifteen minutes later.  Jo’s settled down enough for Miranda to give her an appropriate goodbye, but it’s tense and awkward as she leaves.  The fact that it’s even _more_ tense and awkward in Anne’s car is not particularly comforting.  

Anne’s sedan is a company car that smells like spoilt Chinese food and miscellaneous takeout.  There’s a chip poking out from underneath the floor mats, and Miranda feels sticky just sitting there.  Her heels dig into the matting and she’s sorely tempted to say something.   _It’s not your car,_ Miranda reminds herself.  If something cannot be changed in a quick amount of time, it’s not worth mentioning.  Anne, almost certainly, already knows.

Still.  The odor is noxious enough that Miranda feigns carsickness and rolls down the window a crack.  Wet air coming in fresh and sweet.  Wherever Anne learned to drive, it’s likely not from any accredited course.  She swerves in and out of traffic, blares her horn and threatens to throw her lights on more times then Miranda cares to count.  

In return, Miranda keeps one foot on the invisible break, and the other clutching at the door handle.  Still, Anne doesn’t speak.  She waits until they pull into the garage for Open Borders, and then waits until Miranda leads them up to her office.  Augustus waves hello cheerily, and Miranda smiles back.  

“You called the Pastor for me?” Miranda asks as she prepares to lock herself into her office until whatever Anne needs to discuss is out on the table.  

“He’s been pushed to later this afternoon,” Augustus confirms.  It’s not ideal, but Miranda knows how the Pastor can be difficult to manage. Thanking the man kindly, Miranda tilts her head toward her office, and then shuts the door behind them as she and Anne walk inside.  Taking a seat at her desk, Miranda's eyes flit briefly to her desk photo.

She misses James so very, very, much.

“What exactly did Jo Ryan say?” Anne asks abruptly, and if that’s where they’re starting after all the drama and build up, Miranda cannot fathom where the rest of this conversation intends to go.

“She said that a witch informed her that her parents didn’t like her.”  There had likely been more to that story, but until there were more facts, Miranda didn’t feel comfortable spinning a narrative.  “Why the attention to that word?”

“It’s not the first time we heard it.” It’s the first time Miranda’s hearing it.  She cannot recall a single previous incident in the past where someone had mentioned the word ‘witch’.  Not in this context. Not as an actual physical being that’s terrorizing the victims.

Her face must show her displeasure, because Anne scowls at her.  Crosses her arms over her chest and kicks her feet up onto the edge of Miranda’s desk.  Sulking like a child being disciplined by her mother for coming home late at night.  “Don’t give me that look.  Like it or not you lot are _not_ government officials or police.  I can’t just share everything with you.”

She knows that.  She also knows that this will only work if there’s trust between them.  And as irritated as she is right now, she needs to set her personal feelings to the side.  “Am I permitted to know, _now?”_ Now that one of their girls mentioned a throw away name that may not mean anything at all.

But apparently it did mean something, because Anne nods grimly.  “I spoke to my boss about it.  Got permission from On High and all that.”

“Who’s Jo’s witch, then?” There’s a pad and paper on the corner of Miranda’s desk for notes during calls.  Sliding it closer, Miranda nudges the cap off the pen with the sides of her fingers then expertly spins it about to replace it on the end.  Lowering the ballpoint to the page, she writes _witch_ at the top, preparing to take notes of their discussion.

If possible, Anne seems only more uncomfortable by her action.  “Her name is Louise Hudson.”

Something is decidedly off with that statement.  The certainty, for one.  A name implies there’s a form of some sort.  A background or history that could bring her up on charges.  But Miranda’s never heard of Jo’s witch, and if Louise Hudson was going on trial... _she would have._

Worse yet, Anne knows it.  She brings a thumb up to her lips and bites at a hangnail.  Disappointed and displeased, but not yet willing to go into more detail.  Miranda taps her pen on her pad as she waits.  Staring at Anne with years of patience.  She could wait here for hours if she needed to.  She could wait here for days.

Her phone rings, and the intercom informs her that Peter Ashe is on the line.  “Tell Peter I’m in a meeting,” Miranda tells Augustus firmly.  She switches the phone to Do Not Disturb, and continues tapping her pen.   _Waiting._

“Mrs. Hudson is confidential informant that’s been relocated into a witness protection scheme.”  Miranda’s fingers damn near snap the pen in two.  If it had been a pencil, she would have.  Her nostrils flare.  Her temper rises.

“She’s in a scheme.”

“Yes.”  It’s so clear on Anne’s face.  She _knew_ knew Miranda would be upset.  Knew it would frustrate her.  Knew that it would drive her to distraction, and yet she’d kept it from her anyway.  Perhaps hoping that she could avoid this circumstance.  But there was no possibility that that would have occurred, and now here they sit.  Here they sit, and Miranda feels _enraged._

“She told Jo that her parents didn’t like her, that it's why she was taken.  Why no one had come yet.”  Anne nods, as if Miranda’s telling her things she already knew.  

Miranda slaps her pen on her table.  She listens as it skitters beneath her palm.  It doesn’t matter if she’s broken the plastic.  It doesn’t matter if ink stains her sleeve.  All that matters is that somewhere out there a woman who tortured the girls that Miranda had worked so hard to help is living a life of ease.

“Look, the scheme isn’t a great place to be--”

“--Is it prison?”

“No.”

“Is there anything stopping her from committing these crimes again?”

“We have her kids,” Anne says firmly.  It’s like a twisted story that Miranda didn’t want to know the end of.  She pushes her pad away.  Rolls back in her chair.  Anne grimaces and adjusts her posture in her seat.  “We knew for some time that there was a woman involved in the operations, someone who had actual medical knowledge.  We’d find bodies that had sutures on them, good and proper sutures.  We’d find equipment in empty warehouse that was properly tended to and cared for.  We got a few photos of a woman, face always shrouded or not quite visible.  We had evidence saying that a woman was allowed to enter and leave the premises without force or coercion and she wasn’t one of the girls.”  

“And the men there...they listened to her?”

“She doesn’t give orders or anything like that, but they don’t mess her about either.”

None of this is endearing Miranda to Louise Hudson in the least.  In fact, it just makes her skin crawl.  She knows women can be involved in the management of sex trafficking.  She wouldn't be good at her job if she allowed herself a gender bias. Men can be trafficked, boys can be raped, and women can run the whole thing.  She _knows_ that.  It still turns her stomach at the thought.  “We started building a profile on her, rough age between forty and sixty, somewhere between 170 and 180cm tall, about nine to ten stone.  We were still working the details when she walked right into a police station to turn herself in.”

“You were about to make an arrest, and she turns herself in.”  The prosecutor in Miranda is not the least bit impressed.  She feels her fingers itch.  Legal jargon starts piling up in her mind.  She wants to tear down Louise Hudson and end her world.  

“A spaniard by the name of Rafael Cardoza had approached her some years ago, telling her that he needed her help on a personal matter.  By the time she realized what that personal matter was--”

“--playing nursemaid to sex trafficked men, women, and children?” Miranda cuts in.  Just to be clear.  

Anne’s face twists.  Her arms cross more firmly in front of her body.  She bites at her bottom lip and a lock of red hair slips in front of her face.  She shoves it back in obvious frustration. _“Yes,”_ she is forced to admit.  Because that’s _exactly_ what Louise Hudson did.  

The very tips of Miranda’s fingers feel like bloodthirsty things.  Her nails dig into her desk and she wants to dig and dig.  Tear through the glass top and feel it shatter beneath her.  It would not be enough.  “So, before she could be arrested, when she knew the police were moments away from making their arrest, she turns herself in and gives evidence so she can get into the scheme.”

“She got us all those arrests, Miranda.  Got Jo home.”

“How many years did she do this?” Miranda presses.  “How many years did she turn the other cheek.  Close her eyes and _pretend_ what she was doing was just?”

“It’s not about being just.  You know things are always more complicated than that.” Anne looks disappointed.   _Disappointed._  As though Miranda’s supposed to be better than this.  As though she’s meant to care about someone like Louise Hudson’s personal feelings when her actions led to the abject despair of so many people.  “They threatened her kids.  Threatened to take them away.  She was scared.”

“When a sex trafficker approaches you, threatening to take your children, you don’t join them and help them abuse and traffic more people, _Anne._ You go to the fucking police and you get put in the scheme before you traumatize--you never said.  How many victims were there?”  Anne’s lips are pressed tight.  She doesn’t want to say.  Miranda’s mind can fill in the blanks.  “This group.  There were fourteen.  You and I both know that that’s _nothing_ compared to other cells.  Other cases.  How many were there Anne, over her term of service?  Thirty?  Fourty?  One hundred?  Two?”

“Two hundred and seventy six.”

Miranda glares, unflinchingly, into Anne’s blue eyes.  Looking deep into the younger woman’s very _soul._ “Two hundred and seventy six.”  She repeats the number slowly and methodically.  Memorizing how Anne’s face twitched and grimaced.  How uncomfortable it made her.  Miranda _relishes_ it.  “She tortured two hundred and seventy six people, and you gave her a life with her children and not a whiff of punishment about anything at all.”

“She didn’t _torture_ them--”

“ _Witch,_ Anne.   _Witch._ Not doctor, not angel, not friend, not guardian, not any word that could conceive of something good.  It isn’t uncertainty that Jo feels when she talks about the witch, it isn’t stockholm syndrome loyalty.  It’s _terror._ She was _terrified_ of this witch.”

“Don’t call her that.”  Miranda’s hand slaps down on the table once more.  Vindictively pleased to see how it makes Anne jump in her seat.

Words come to her mouth to say more, but Miranda’s mobile rings.  Glowering at Anne, still, she snatches at it.  Needing _something_ to distract her from this.   _Peter_ flashes across the screen.  She squeezes the button on the side and tosses the phone somewhere to her left.  She is not nearly in the right mood for that.  “Why do they call her ‘the witch,’” Miranda growls out.  Because if she’s going to honor Anne’s request, she’s going to do it under her own volition, not simply because it makes Anne twitchy.

For six years she’s worked with Anne and the MSHTU.  Six years of advocating for people taken out of horrible situations and circumstance.  Six years where Miranda thought she could trust Anne to at least be honest about he work.  Because the work needed to come first, now and always.  It feels like a betrayal.  A betrayal of the worst kind.  

How can they make sure that they run a proper prosecution effort at the trials if they don’t have all the information?

It violates the very foundation of Open Boarders’ work. “It was something the kids started.”  Of course it was.  Because _children_ were who they were dealing with more often than not.  Children, like Jo, who were scared of monsters in the closet and bogeymen coming to get them.  Who feared evil and pixies and _witches._ “When someone became too sick or not well enough to move on to the next phase of the operation, Louise would make them disappear.  Kids started wondering what happened.  Whispered about what she did to them.  One of the men heard them, told them Louise cut them up and ate them for dinner.  She’s been a witch ever since.”

Ever since.  One of the men _heard._ Disappearance.  All of this speaks of long term execution.  Multiple events.  Multiple people.  Two hundred and seventy six people.  Terrified that this woman was going to come to them, take them away and eat them.  Such a horrifying concept that it had kept the children in line.  Miranda can hear the threats in her mind.  Can see how it would have happened.

_Kneel, or I’ll let the witch take you._

_Don’t you cry -- do you want me to get the witch?_

Fear keeps prisoners in line, and it makes starved and frightened children do anything asked of them because it can very much get worse.  Miranda hears a phone ringing in the hall.  Glances through the glass window between her and Augustus and can see Augustus’ flustered expression.  Peter is growing desperate, it seems.

“You know I wouldn’t have given her over to the scheme if it wasn’t for the best,” Anne says quietly.  “You know that I wouldn’t have let her get off with anything if there was anything I could have done to prove she didn’t deserve--”

“--Everything she did proved she didn’t deserve a witness protection scheme, Anne,” Miranda cuts in.  She feels vile in her own skin.  She needs a shower.  She needs to go back to Jo and make sure she’s all right.  She needs to fly to Wherever He Is and hug James and ask him to just retire already.  Come home and stay there because she’s tired of dealing with all of this just her and Thomas and she wants him with them.

She wants him to leave the Navy and all the bullshit that they represent, and just stay with her so she can go home on days like this and know that at least he’s safe from harm.  At least the worst they have to worry about is things at home.  But apparently there are sex traffickers living in cozy houses in schemes around the UK and so their little neighborhood might not be safe or lovely at all.

They should just leave.  Find an island and stay there and never come back to this wretched place.  

The idea leaves her mind as soon as it enters.   _But what about Jo?  What about Linda Morris?_ Miranda closes her eyes.  She presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.  “She took pictures, Miranda,” Anne tells her.  “She took pictures, and she recorded meetings.  She gave medicine to sick girls and boys.  And the ones that she could declare too sick to move, she smuggled out so that we could pick them up and get them to schemes of their own.  She’s a witch because she took the bodies of near dead victims and she told some of the most violent scum on the earth that _she'd_ take care of it.  She saved lives, Miranda."

She saved her own life and a few others by torturing far more.

It doesn’t help.  Miranda never heard of nor saw these victims.  Which means that they didn’t get the advocacy or legal support that they may have wanted or deserved.  They were shuffled into a scheme of their own, most likely.  Incapable of surfacing because that meant Louise Hudson’s position in the organization would be threatened.  So they were out there, somewhere, living in hiding.  Just like they’ll live for the rest of their lives.

Miranda can _feel_ the paranoia it would cause.  Can feel her own anxiety starting to grow in her chest.  Her head aches and she feels physically sick.  She shouldn’t have come back to work so soon, but she’d thought she could handle it.  She’s not handling this at all.  Maybe she needs to see a doctor of her own.   _Help me stop feeling this way._ Or, like Jo, _help make me better._

“I want to talk to her,” Miranda says at long last.  

“You know I can’t let you see her.”

“I don’t need to _see_ her.  Set up a phone call, arrange a video conference, I don’t care how you do it, I need to talk to her.  If I’m going to help these girls, I need to talk to her.”

“You helped victims before, without talking to her or knowing she existed.”

“Yes, do tell me how that happened.  Please.  Because if you want to have the conversation about redacted files and refraining from sharing pertinent information that can help me talk to my clients, I would _love_ to have that now.”  Anne flinches.  Looks down at the carpeted floor.  Her shoulders slumping even lower in her chair.

Miranda tries to tell herself that Anne didn’t make the final decision when it came to sharing information with Open Borders.  She tries to tell herself that Anne needed to get permission before she opened certain files with her.  That Miranda’s confidentiality agreement and position as a consultant only worked when the government deigned to provide her with documentation.  She could only help the barristers and prosecution teams if they _wanted_ her help.  They weren’t required to give her anything.

It still feels like a betrayal. “I’ll see what I can do…” Anne sighs.  She starts picking at her nails.  Each pass causing a click that echos through the room.  Miranda struggles to rein in her temper.  Struggles to bury it somewhere deep where she can let it out in a more constructive manner.  But she hasn’t had a chance to let out any of her frustration in days, and she’s sick and tired of people lying to her and maneuvering behind her back.  

She’s used to her clients doing it.  She doesn’t need it in all the other aspects of her life either.  

Seeming to realize that Miranda is in no mood to have a civil conversation, Anne sighs.  Apologizes.  It’s not good enough.  Not yet.  Miranda doesn’t feel like forgiving anyone just yet.  For anything.  She feels like Ares, wanting only to wage war on the world.

Anne leaves.  Quiet and polite.  Mumbling one more apology just before the door clicks shut behind her.  Breathing harshly through her nose, Miranda sinks her head into her hands.  Only to snap it up as soon as the door opens again--Augustus rushing in. _“What?”_ she snaps.

He freezes.  Statuesque in response to her gorgon’s stare.  Her heart hurts.  “No, I’m sorry, please come in Augustus.”  He doesn’t.  Just stays at the door.  One hand on the handle, the other on the frame.  

“It’s just...Mr. Peter Ashe, ma’am...he’s been calling all day and, well, he’s here now.”  Miranda takes a moment to let that settle in.  Of course.  Of course he’s _here._ Why wouldn’t he be here.  Why not just add him to this spectacular disaster of a day.  “He’s making quite a ruckus downstairs, ma’am.  Insisting that he speak to you.”

“Fine.” She checks her calendar.  All of her meetings are a mess, all of her carefully laid out schedules are burning with the laugher of hellfire, and what was the point in setting anything up if nothing was going to be followed anyway.  She feels her very skin starting to tingle and her teeth setting on edge.  “Tell security to bring him to conference room B, and have them wait.”  Nothing would make her happier than to be given an excuse to eject Peter straight from her building.

No, that’s not true.  James would make her happier.  Unable to resist, and knowing that keeping Peter waiting will only irritate him more, Miranda turns her computer on and opens an email.  He doesn’t always get a chance to check his government issued email address, but it’s more effective at getting in touch than their phone calls.  

_James,_

_Work has been hell and it feels like nothing is going right._

_Any words of wisdom?_

_Miranda_

Sending it out without a second thought, she closes down and grabs her pad and pen.  Feeling better even if just a little.  He’ll get the message, and then he’ll right back, and then she’ll have something of his to have with her for a little while longer.  Until she can get to the next email, the next letter, the next phone conversation.  Whenever that will be.

Peter is already inside the conference room by the time she arrives, and she nods to her security team as she enters.  Her one time friend had been standing by the windows, but when he hears her come in he turns about.  Walks toward her in quick steps.  “Miranda--”

“--Before you begin, I am _furious_ with you.  So if you’ve come here to beg my forgiveness, you’ll needn’t bother.”

Peter looks more than a little taken aback.  He stares at her with his mouth floundering uselessly.  Hands in the air and eyes so very wide.  His crooked teeth and overbite sit awkwardly between his mustache and beard.  If she had any remaining capacity to care, she might wonder as to why his hair was disheveled.  His clothes rumpled.

Caring, in regards to this man, is an emotion that left her a long time ago.

Swallowing thickly, he makes his plight.  “I want to talk to Thomas.”  

For a moment, she considers if he truly believes she had any control over who Thomas speaks to or what he decides to do in his life.  There isn’t a single soul alive that can tell Thomas what to do and force him to do it if he isn’t so inclined.  His greatest method of destruction comes from making foolish decisions as a result of _not listening_ to other people.  Thomas is a force unto himself, and he _chooses_ to embrace Miranda and James as guiding lights in his life, but that hardly means that they have any way of controlling him.

If Peter is asking Miranda for permission, or worse yet -- access, then chances are more than likely, he’s already tried with Thomas.  And if he’s here, it means Thomas said ‘no’ on no uncertain terms.  “He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Miranda is fully comfortable saying.  She knows her husband inside and out, and she knows how hard he’s worked on this very thing.

 _No one is allowed to hit you, ever again,_ Miranda and James had drilled into his mind year after year.  And finally, it has seemed to stick.  Here is Thomas’ chance to prove he can get over it.  That he doesn’t have to say all is well and move on.  That he doesn’t have to bear his throat to the world and let the monsters keep tearing it out, delighting in the bloody stains his mangled body leaves behind.  

Peter makes a noise of frustration.  He reaches forward, but Miranda steps to the side.  She has no desire to touch him.  No desire to let him close enough to put a hand on her shoulder, her body, her face.  “That may be the case, but I need to speak with him.”

“About?” Miranda asks.  “Because the last time you spoke to him, you bruised his cheek.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“How does one, unintentionally punch their so-called _friend,_ Peter?”

“It was an accident!”

“Burning toast is an _accident,_ Peter.  Punching your friend so hard he is thrown into the wall opposite and bruising his face for _days_ is assault.”

Peter scowls.  He rubs a hand over his beard.  He avoids eye contact.  Avoidant mannerisms that reek of guilt and frustration.  Miranda tilts her chin up.  Perfectly content to argue with Peter all day long about this if he wants to.  She has enough anger in her that she wants to let loose, and he’s a fairly decent person to tear into.  “I didn’t intend to punch him,” he finally gets out.

“Yes you did,” Miranda tells him.  “You certainly didn’t intend to punch next to his face, or by his face, or just to scare him.  You wanted to punch him because he made you angry.”

“I _was_ angry, but listen, Miranda, you need to understand _why.”_ He casts a furtive look toward the door.  As if he was worried someone outside could hear them.  As if that’s what should be concerning him.

She crosses her arm.  Tells him, “You know this room is sound-proof,” and watches as he nods.  

“It’s sensitive.  It’s sensitive and I needed you to understand.  You have to understand so you can tell Thomas.”

“Tell Thomas _what_ exactly?”

Peter holds up a hand.  His skin looks sweaty and nervous, and his fingers trembles in the air.  He hurries around the conference room table, back toward the windows where he’d been loitering upon her entrance.  There’s a bag there.  A black satchel that he opens and pulls a binder from.  Leaning over the table, he passes it to her.

He’s still trembling.  Licking his lips with almost alarming regularity.  Flipping the binder open, Miranda blinks at the first page.  It’s a visitor’s log.  From Belmarsh.  “Why do you have this?” she asks slowly.  There’s already one name highlighted.  The one she was meant to be looking for in the first place.  

John Silver.

For some reason, John Silver had visited Edward Teach, Charles Vane, and every single member of crew responsible for the bomb in Northwood.  He’d visited them more than once over the past few years.  “John _did_ do this,” Peter says then.  “I punched Thomas, because he’s been too blind to see.  I was right.  I was right all along.  And Laith Muldoon just went missing.”

Miranda’s blood freezes in her veins.  “What did you just say?”

“The police went to find him last night.  He’s gone.”

Stomach curling into knots, Miranda's  head tips down.  She turns the pages of the visitor’s log.  Over and over again.  John Silver.  

John Silver.

_John Silver._

Her jaw clenches.  “Who knows this?”

“The prosecution for certain,” Peter tells her.  “I’m sure Rackham will be receiving it soon.”  John’s bail application will be up for argument any day now.  Damn it all.  “He’s a liar, Miranda...I just wanted to keep you all safe.”

Miranda snaps the binder closed and tilts her chin up.  “Message received.  You’re still not talking to Thomas.”  She leaves him there to flounder.  It’s not important.  What’s important is John.  Hurrying down the hall, she flags Augustus as soon as she sees him.  “Cancel my meetings for the afternoon, reschedule Pastor Lambrick, apologize to the party planning committee that I won’t be able to attend.  If any of the girls from the raid need my assistance you can give them my cell phone, tell Max to call me if there are any developments.”

“Where are you going?” Augustus asks, sputtering as he tries to get all that down.

The only place she can go right now.  “Home.”


	12. Chapter 12

Thomas told Jack that if he wanted to meet, they weren’t going to be doing it in the Danger Zone that is his apartment.  So when Miranda walks through her front door, she’s not the least bit surprised to see Jack’s taken over their library and sitting room and has made a disaster out of everything.  Thomas is standing above it all, seconds away from a fit of cleanliness that’s going to set him and Jack at odds, and Miranda seriously needs a drink.  

Jack is kneeling where their table should be.  (Apparently he needed the floorspace, so he’s pushed everything to the side.)  There are binders and legal ribbons thrown in all directions, and Jack’s thrown his coat haphazardly on the arm of the sofa.  It’s giving  _ Miranda  _ a coronary just looking at it all, and she’s not nearly as fastidious as her husband when it came to keeping this room in proper order.  

That being said, Jack looks up when she steps inside and smiles broadly.  “Ah, Miranda, welcome back, we were just getting ready for--”

“--Did you know that John’s been to see Teach and the others at least six times each since they were put away?” Jack’s mouth snaps closed.  Thomas twists where he stands, hands twitching toward Jack’s coat.  

“He did what?” Thomas asks.  He can’t help it.  He picks up the coat, smooths out the wrinkles and goes to hang it up properly on the stand in the hall.  He’s pale as the moon as he passes Miranda.  Apparently the day hadn’t been kind to him either. 

“How do you know this?” Jack asks slowly.  There are few more dramatic ways of giving someone a binder full of incriminating evidence.  Considering the state of her library, Miranda gives way to the best of them all.  She holds the binder in both hands, lifts it high above her head, and throws it on the ground with a satisfying thump.  “Oh.” 

There’s a few moments of silence where Miranda watches Jack open the binder.  Flip through, page to page. Teach’s conspirators hadn't ended up in the same prison.  They were scattered about in different ones.  And yet John had gone to each of them.  Visited with each of them.  There are email correspondences saved and clipped into the binder.  Arranging the visits.  Scheduling times.  Accepting that some visits may be recorded. 

“Did you know?” Miranda asks. 

She can see the answer on Jack’s face.  His jaw keeps ticking to the left or right.  His cheek twitching.  But he isn’t shocked.  Isn’t dumbfounded.  Resigned might be the closest adjective, but Miranda can’t even call it that.  He’s merely a thing.  Sitting there and trying very hard not to show what he’s feeling at all. 

It’s grotesque. 

When Jack finally looks up he shrugs his shoulders.  “Miranda, you know I can’t tell you any information pertaining to John’s case without his permission.” 

She does know that.  She knows it very well.  It doesn’t mean a bloody thing though.  Because he’s not denying the evidence that she’s given him.  Thomas curses and throws himself onto the sofa.  He sinks his head into his hands.  If he closes his eyes he can’t see the mess in their home. 

“Look.  I knew about this.  John and I...we had a long talk about this when we met.  I have very clear instructions, and right now, you have nothing to be concerned about.” Jack’s trying to sound placating.  He’s trying to sound like it isn’t a problem.  He even offers a smile.  A smile that Miranda has no intentions of returning. 

A long time ago she might have felt compelled to listen to him.  She may even have felt it in her to enjoy playing the fool for a moment so he can feel proud of himself for patting her on the way.   _ It’s all right, little miss.  There there.   _ But right now, she hasn’t had a moment’s rest in weeks and she would very much like to see the world  _ burn.  _

“My husband is about to go before the Bar Standards Board and you’re about to defend him on the grounds that he couldn’t possibly have had a conflict of interest that ensured that John Silver wasn’t punished for his crimes, and that there is a log of him visiting the very ones  _ guilty  _ of committing said crimes so frequently it requires a  _ binder  _ to hold it all together!” 

A frustrated noise emits from her husband and she feels the very skin above her chest start to tingle.  Bugs feel as though they’re crawling under her skin.  The small patch of skin on the very back of her head picks unhappily.  Her whole body is against this motion, and yet Jack sighs and rubs his eyes.  

“Thomas did his job,” Jack tells her.  He has his palms pressed together like a catholic at prayer.  Thumbs crossed over in an x.  He waves them in front of his body.  Fingertips tap the binder.  Eyes wide and imploring.  “His job was to defend John Silver and convince everybody at that Court Martial that he  _ wasn’t  _ guilty.  He wasn’t prosecuting John.  He wasn’t hiding information or flubbing anything.  He was  _ defending.   _ And he defended him with all of the skill and expertise as a man of his stature and discipline should have defended him with.  The Bar Standards Board will come back and declare that Thomas is not guilty of malpractice or of refraining from stepping away due to a conflict of interest.  There is  _ no  _ case there.” 

“John’s in jail right now and Muldoon is  _ missing!”  _

At long last, Thomas’ head snaps up.   _ “What?”  _ Even Jack looks flabbergasted.  He stares at her, and Miranda wishes someone would take her seriously at long last. 

“You’re going to be making a bail application for John, please explain to me how that’s going to go when his co-defendant disappears before he could be arrested.  Explain to me how Thomas’ hearing is going to go when you can’t even prove that John deserves to be out on bail?”

Jacks’ eyelashes flutter as he blinks rapidly.  He shakes his head once, twice, three times.  Hard and quick like he’s trying to forcibly dislodge thoughts from where they’ve been epoxied to the inside of his skull.  “Wait, wait...where’s Muldoon?” 

“Peter said--”

“--Peter.” Jack grunts.  Standing up sharply he leaves the binder on the floor.  There’s even more distaste now then there had been back at his apartment.  “What did  _ Peter _ say?” he growls unhappily. 

Miranda squints.  Eyeing him over as she tries to work out exactly what had gotten Jack riled up  _ now _ .  “That the police went to pick up Laith, and he’s gone.  No one knows where he is.” 

Even as she says it, she can feel where things have gotten uncomfortable.  Wrong, even.  Jack glances at Thomas and Miranda follows his lead.  Watching as Thomas snatches his phone up and starts dialing a number.  “Madi?  It’s Thomas, is Laith with you?”  he’s got his back to them, and unlike Jack--Thomas isn’t one to let anything slip.  His shoulders don’t slump, his tone of voice doesn’t change, he doesn’t even move in a way that could point toward either answer.  Just stands there and waits, before humming his understanding.  “All right, we’ll talk later.”  Ending the call with flick of his thumb against the pixelated screen. 

When he turns around he just shrugs one shoulder.  “Does John  _ need  _ Laith to get bail?” 

Jack is, as always, entirely unimpressed. 

***

Thomas won’t tell Miranda what Madi told him.  He remains irritatingly quiet on the matter.  She asks him more than once.  Asks him before they go to sleep at night.  Asks him when they eat dinner.  Asks him when they say goodbye in the mornings.  She calls Madi to ask her as well, but Madi refuses to tell her too.   _ “I can’t,”  _ Madi informs her quietly, with all the coaching and training of Thomas’ defense skills firmly at the ready.  

It makes sense.  Miranda  _ knows  _ it makes sense.  If Madi told Thomas where Laith was, and Thomas didn’t report it to the police, then he’d be aiding and abetting a fugitive.  That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt to hear that Miranda can’t get all the information at once.  “Everyone keeps leaving me out,” Miranda tells Thomas when she’s feeling particularly petty. 

She doesn’t  _ like  _ the way he reacts.  The obvious hurt that he hides beneath a wall of passivity and quietly spoke apologies.  She doesn’t  _ enjoy  _ seeing grinding his teeth and scowling at the wall.  She likes it even less when James sends her an email with the very advice that she’d asked for, but now no longer wished to hear. 

_ Miranda,  _

_ Whenever your work becomes hell, it’s because you’re becoming too attached, faced with too many problems with not enough solutions, and you’re not taking time for yourself to decompress.  Take a break.  You have a team that can handle most if not all of the tasks that you keep making your responsibility.  Trust them to handle it.   _

_ And get an intern to deal with Pastor Lambrick.  I know he’s driving you crazy and you think he’s important to keep happy, but his commitment is already in place for the next fiscal season, isn’t it?  Someone else can manage him while you’re doing what you do best. Helping those girls.  _

_ Take a step back and put your priorities first.  If your to do lists are too big, then section them off into individual tasks and farm them out.  You know who to trust at OB.  So trust them.  Let them do their jobs.  They believe in you, and so do I.  _

_ Also, I heard from Thomas.  You know your laws, Miranda.  Don’t snipe at him because he’s doing his job.  He’s feeling guilty enough as it is.  He thinks all of this is his fault, and he doesn’t want to make it worse. He’s trying to protect you.  Don’t punish him for that.   _

_ And I already told him to talk to you, let’s see if he does all right?   _

_ All my love,  _

_ -James _

One of these days, Miranda’s going to stop finding intelligent men attractive.  She just hopes that James and Thomas get stupider the older they get.  

For now, she takes James’ advice and calls a meeting with her key staff.  Augustus takes notes, Max brings coffee, and the various department heads all look eager and willing to help.  Almost  _ too  _ willing, a dark part of Miranda’s mind whispers.  She cannot recall anyone volunteering to do more work in the past, and self doubt starts to drive her. 

Monsters that live in her hindbrain, waiting for moments of weakness to emerge so they can gouge her in the night.   _ What if I become unnecessary?  _

_ What if they don’t need me anymore?  _

_ What if they’re better at it than I am?  _

_ What if I can never work again?  _

_ What if-- _

“It will be all right,” Max tells Miranda firmly.  She didn’t give Miranda coffee.  She gave her a cup of sweet chamomile tea.  A lemon currant scone to go with it.  “You hired us to be the best.” 

It takes everything Miranda has to agree.  Even as her assignments start getting passed off, leaving her numb at the head of the table, she doesn’t feel better.  She doesn’t feel validated or confident it’s the right choice.  

But the interns can plan the party.  Idelle can handle Pastor Lambrick’s partnership.  Budget and finance meetings can be pushed back and consolidated so only the most pressing of updates are brought to Miranda’s attention.  Summary reports acceptable for the time being.  Max...Max is brilliant and can handle everything on Miranda’s calendar.  

And even as items are re-arranged and her teams start to discuss the best way to improve their workflow with the new responsibilities, Miranda feels like she’s not getting what she wants in the first place.  Validation, vindication, a sense of belonging?  She searches her mind for what she’s missing, and only comes up empty. 

As though there had never been anything worthwhile at all. 

The only thing on her to-do list is working with Jo and assisting the Max and Anne as needed.  She watches as Augustus starts making changes on the calendar.  Color coded items marking meetings for Miranda start flitting about the spectrum.  Blue for Max, red for Idelle, so on and so forth.  Miranda’s green boxes dance out of sight.  

It makes her feel sick.  

When the meeting is called, she’s very tempted to email James and tell him how wrong he was.  How she didn’t need less things to do.  How she didn’t need to pass items off to her team.  How Open Borders was all she had and she couldn’t just abandon it or step away now of all times.  

Her blood feels like it’s prickling her from the inside out, and her chest starts to ache.  Caving in as though she’s receiving blow after physical blow.  Miranda’s not sure how she made it back to her office.  But somehow she did it.  Somehow she dragged herself there.  Stepped across the threshold and slid the blinds shut to her in office windows, and telling Augustus that she didn’t want to be disturbed. 

She falls into her desk chair and sits.  There’s nothing to do now.  No emails to write.  No interviews to give.  No meetings to attend.  No reports to review.  She is simply a fixture in her own company.  Useless and incapable of doing anything worthwhile at all.  She couldn’t manage to hold it together. 

She should have done better. 

Hours slip by.  

She spends the whole day staring at her wall, waiting for a change that doesn’t come.  She thought it would be harder than this.  She thought that someone would call her, ask for help, ask for something.  But her phone didn’t ring.  Her email didn’t give her a single notification.  Nothing happened at all. 

When end of day came, she only knew because she could hear other people moving.  Other people walking to the elevators and going down.  Other people leaving to go back to their ordinary lives, their normal relationships, their homes filled with dramas so very different from her own.  

Standing takes effort.  As though her body has grown roots since she sat.  Ensnaring her to the ground and displeased with her attempts at shifting.  She walks to the door.  Augustus has turned the night message on the phone, and he’s left his desk neat as a pin. 

He has a bobble head sitting next to his monitor.  One of those lucky cat tchotchkes from Chinatown that sell easily to tourists.  Augustus flushed red whenever someone asked him about it.  Said it was given to him by a girl, but he never said who.  

Alone,  with no one around to see her, Miranda reaches out and taps the little white head.   _ Wish me luck.  _

***

She didn’t mean to come to the Community Center.  But, well, here she is.  Her own scarf wrapped around her head as she scanned for familiar faces.  She vaguely hopes Madi will be there.  But Madi is nowhere in sight, and hers isn’t the only absence Miranda notes.  The Center’s aura is a far cry from the exuberant spirit of only a few weeks ago.  Sparse and hardly populated.  It turns Miranda’s stomach into knots.  

Mama Nanny is there, though.  Helping a couple of dour faced children with their homework.  There’s less of them than before.  The food trays are still there, but it looks less extravagant.  There’s no music or loud laughter.  

Eyes turn toward her as she steps inside, and Miranda feels the urge to leave coil tightly about her spine.  She’s about to do just that when Mama Nanny calls out to her.  Beckoning her closer even as she slowly stands up.  She’s tired and moving slow, and Miranda has never been one to not treat her elders with respect. 

She hurries toward Mama Nanny, one hand to her arm and assuring her that she needn’t stand.  She can sit.  Rest.  “How are you feeling?” Miranda asks. 

Mama Nanny’s hands cup over Miranda’s, and her dark eyes seem to peer directly into Miranda’s soul.  “How are  _ you  _ feeling?” 

There are dozens of words Miranda knows she can use.  Her multiple degrees and endless years of education have given her a vocabulary to be proud off.  There are words like sorrowful and bereaved.  Wobegon and lugubrious. 

But for all the synonyms of sadness that her education provided, she’s not certain any of them fit as well as lost.  She feels lost.  As though she’s been misplaced in her own narrative, her very importance vanishing from the stream of consciousness that made up her world.  She is the haunting specter cosigned to be the bystander for tragedies, and she is exhausted with it all. 

“I’m fine,” Miranda says.

But it’s not the truth.  It’s not even close.  She is not fine. 

Mama Nanny holds her hands.  Her skin is cool and comforting.  They sit together, and Mama Nanny doesn’t call out her lie.  Doesn’t press her for more.  She just lets Miranda sit with her at a table she’s not sure she belongs at.  Muslim families gathered in this place of sanctuary and peace.  

Parents come to collect their children.  Elders start making their way home.  It’s the end of the day and the Center will close soon.  Miranda doesn’t even know why she came here.  She wishes she did.  “After the trial,” Mama Nanny tells Miranda as the Center starts to empty.  They sit like the gargoyles of Paris.  Watching without moving at all.  “After the trial, Laith brought John to us.  He had no home, few contacts.  And a shaken spirit.” 

Miranda remembers looking back to the defendant’s box when the verdict had been read.  Remembers finding it odd that John had just sat there.  Listened as the court pronounced him  _ not-guilty.  _  He hadn’t smiled.  Hadn’t sagged in relief.  Barely even seemed to be listening.  He’d just stared forward and nodded when he had been given his instructions on how to proceed from the court. 

Laith had burst into tears and clung to John.  But John hadn’t so much as looked away from the barrister bench.  As if he hadn’t noticed the trial was over, and he was free to go.  

“Do you know where they put him?” Mama Nanny asks.  Miranda does.  She licks her lips.  Squeezes Mama Nanny’s hands a little as she tells. 

“Pentonville.” 

_ “Pentonville.”  _ Mama Nanny’s mouth twists into an unhappy scowl.  Her fingers squeeze Miranda’s palm tight.  “That place is a place for the damned.”  It seemed every time the prison appeared in the news it had violated some code or other.  Gang fights, poor sanitation, poor circulation, and even cockroaches.  

“The six men who went to prison….Teach and the others...they were split up.  Jack Rackham, the barrister representing John, he said no one knew where to put him where he’d be safe from the other inmates.”  Something she doubts will make Mama Nanny happy to hear.  The kindly woman’s beautiful eyes are filled with such sorrow.  She murmurs a prayer that Miranda cannot understand.  “He’s being kept in solitary,” Miranda continues.  “Jack says it isn’t as bad as it could be.” 

It could be John getting shivved in line when no one is looking.  It could be him drowning in the toilet before the guard can come.  It could be a slip.  A fall.  A hanging in a cell that looked like suicide.  

“Let us hope that he is right.”  Mama Nanny sighs.  They are the last ones there.  “It’s getting late.”  It is, and Miranda needs to get home. 

They push in chairs together.  Pack up the food into the kitchen.  Storing everything where it needed to be and throwing away anything that couldn’t be salvaged.  The Center composts, and Miranda follows Mama Nanny’s instructions as they wrap up.  They walk together toward the door

Miranda ducks her head as she realizes just how dark it’s gotten.  “I’m sorry for keeping you,” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Mama Nanny tells her.  “If this place can give you comfort, then you are more than welcome to come.”  There’s a pop and a fizzle.  Someone setting off a firework early.  The vague echo of laughter bounces through the city streets.  

Another one goes off, and Miranda wonders how long it will be before someone calls the police.  “Will you do me a favor, Lady Hamilton?” Mama Nanny asks her.  The least she can do is say yes.  “When he is freed...when he is permitted to go home...be there for him?” 

She promises to do so immediately.  Afterall, now that her schedule has been cleared of anything that could possibly be contributing to her looming nervous breakdown, what else would she do?


	13. Chapter 13

Thomas isn’t downstairs when Miranda finally gets home.  The lights are turned down low and it looks like most of the house staff have head out for the evening.  Kicking off her heels, Miranda walks barefoot to the kitchen.  Even in the dark she can find her way to the fridge.  Though it nearly blinds her when she opens it.

Blinking past the black spots that dance across her vision, Miranda pulls out her carton of apple juice and a club soda.  The spritzer had been an invention she’d come up with in college.  She’d ordered a pizza to get her through a night of studying, and discovered after the fact she didn’t have any proper fizzy drink to go with it.  (As much as she would have liked to at the time, studying and alcohol weren’t a good mix.) With little harm in trying, she’d mixed the two together and found that she liked it a great deal.

It’s been her go-to for ages.  Even if there were carbonated apple juice options in the store.  There’s something nice about making it with her own hands.  

Leaning against the counter, she sips her drink slowly.  Lets it linger on her tongue.  Her eyes flutter shut and she just listens to the sound of her home at night.  The clock in the foyer chimes at the half hour mark.  The boiler grumbles about in the basement.

Feeling a bit bold, Miranda finishes her drink and sets it in the sink without washing.  She’ll worry about it another time.  Yawning, she makes her way to the stairs and starts going up.  The volume must be turned down low, because she doesn’t even hear the television until she’s reached the hall.

Even then, she can’t make out the words until she pushes open her bedroom door.   _Fiddler on the Roof_ is playing in all its aged glory.  Tevye about to drink to life, cheers in the tavern erupting.  Thomas is sitting against the headboard, iPad on his knees.  Playing endless games of Mahjong.  He looks up when she comes in.  “Hey,” he greets quietly.

“Hey,” she echoes in turn.  

The bed is warm and inviting, and she crawls into it without bothering to get out of her work clothes.  Thomas lifts his arm and she rests her head against his chest.  She breathes a sigh of pure relief as his arm wraps around her shoulders.  His head tilts to the side and he kisses her hair.  “Got an email from James today,” Miranda tells him.  He huffs.  She feels his breath shift across her head like a gentle breeze.

“Me too.”  Apparently they both got chastised.  “I’m sorry,” he begins.  She wonders how long he’s been sitting here in the dark, watching musicals and playing Mahjong as if it will actually help take his mind off anything.  Her gaze shifts to the end of the bed.   _Yentl, Les Miserables,_ and _West Side Story_ are already there.  “I can’t tell you—”

“—I know.”  Adjusting so she can meet his eyes, she forces a smile.  Knowing full well that it’s not happiness on her face.  Knowing he understands too.  He looks much the same.  Forcing smiles through endless stress and discomfort.  “I’m sorry I pushed.”

“I understand _why…_ ” His hand on her shoulder squeezes imperceptibly.  His body’s tense and displeased.  “I just...I hate not telling you.”

“I know.”  And had she felt like looking for signs of that, she would have seen it.  But then, and even now, she hadn’t wanted to extend the effort.  Now she’s simply too tired to fight it.  She just wants her husband and her to be on good terms.  Besides... _he’s_ not the one she’s truly mad at.  “I don’t want some arsehole who steals and publishes our photos to the media in the middle of our relationship,” she tells Thomas quietly.  “Enough’s enough, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses her.  Minty toothpaste still strong enough to tingle.  

He turns his iPad off and sets it to the side.  And she lets her head rest more firmly on his chest.  Closing her eyes, she listens to the movie and cherishes how Thomas just holds her. Quietly humming along as the chorus chants, _To life, to life, l'chaim._

She’s asleep before she knows it.  

***

Monday comes before Miranda’s fully prepared.  They’d spent the weekend at home, not leaving the house at all.  Augustus forwarded Miranda details about the New Year’s Party, and Miranda quietly responded that they wouldn’t be able to attend.   _Take a break,_ James had recommended.   _Prioritize._ Frankly, the idea of going to a party when James had to email her advice, John sat in prison, and Madi didn’t take her calls seemed incompatible with her wants or needs.  

Thomas agreed far too quickly for it to be anything other than the truth, and they spent the holiday ignoring the sound of fireworks in the city.  Thomas keeps a shelf of Feel Good Movies for special occasions, and they plowed through a good portion of their library without the least bit of guilt on the matter.  

They cooked pasta and didn’t change out of their night clothes, and their quiet Sadness Exercises kept them going until morning came the day of John’s bail application.  

Thomas waits for her at the door, dressed in a fine suit and sliding smooth gloves onto his hands.  They’re deerskin.  Soft and velvet to the touch.  

They ride together to Colchester.  Court Martial it is.  “If he doesn’t get bail, they’re going to send him back to the MCTC,” Thomas reveals as he sets up the GPS and starts pulling out of their drive.  Miranda rolls her lips.  Tasting her makeup on her tongue.  

“Can they keep him there if he’s not military personnel?” she asks quietly.

“The prosecution said it’s an undue burden on the people to continue paying for transit from Pentonville to Colchester every time they have a court date, he was once a soldier and therefore...” he trails off.  Flicking his directional and turning left to get onto the main road. Miranda can understand the dilemma, but sending John back to a place where he’d been remanded on his first trial…

It seems overly harsh.

Maybe that’s the point.

To be harsh.

Eager to take her mind off things, Miranda slides her gaze to her husband.  His blonde hair looks brown in this lighting.  Flecks of grey peeking out just above his ears.  He’s been terribly  excited to go grey for as long as she’s known him.  Always complaining about how he had too much of a baby face and how grey hair will make him look distinguished.  She’s not entirely sure that he’s going to look anything other than _old,_ but if he prefers ‘distinguished’ she won’t argue with it.  

Thomas is a good driver.  He’s careful in ways Miranda and James aren’t.  He checks his mirrors, he turns his head.  He always waits to text or answer a call until he’s not driving.  He’s sweet about it even.  Miranda can still remember when the first of the driving apps came out.  He’d bounded into their sitting room while James had been trying to sail a ship in _Assassin’s Creed Black Flag._  ( _Trying_ very much being the operative word.)  Thomas hadn’t paid the game one bit of attention as he prattled on about the new feature.

“Look! You can push this button and once it’s activated it blocks all calls and texts while you’re driving!” he’d proclaimed proudly.  Miranda had to stop herself from laughing too loudly as James failed to engage the Man o’ War on the screen properly, attention caught between one lover in a state of glee and his responsibilities as a dutiful pirate captain.

“Thomas, my love,” she’d said with a too wide grin, “Why don’t you just turn you phone _off_ instead?”

Her husband had blinked at her.  Frowning adorably as James well and truly started failing in his mission.  Cursing and screaming getting louder and louder, both of them ignoring it entirely.  Blood splattered across the screen as his character died, triggering the reloading sequence.  Finally, there’d been silence.  James always stared down at the controller when he died in video games.  As though it had done something to personally offend him.

“Ships don’t _work_ like that,” James had muttered petulantly, before finally turning to Thomas.  “It’s got one of those autoset features right?  So you don’t forget to turn it back on?  It starts up as soon as you go over a certain speed limit, and then allows calls and messages back in once you’ve stopped?”

Thomas had grinned and thrown himself onto the sofa next to James.  Holding his phone out so James could see it while Miranda plucked the controller from James’ hands and began hunting the Man o’ War properly.  James never could play _Black Flag_ right.  “As long as the car’s going more than twenty kilometers per hour, it blocks all calls.”

James had hummed.  Slipped an arm around Thomas’ body and pulled him even closer.  Twisting him until Thomas’ knees crossed over James’ hips.  Miranda, meanwhile, had kept her attention mostly on the game.  Spying her target and setting up to board and let loose.  “You don’t want to hear from me when you’re on the road?” James had asked charmingly, purring almost as he held Thomas close.

“You know that’s not true,” Thomas pouted.  “Don’t tease.”

“What if it’s an emergency?” James had asked.  He’d leaned forward to kiss along Thomas’ throat.  The phone got lost in the moment, and Miranda watched out of the corner of her eye as Thomas leaned back and let James lavish his skin with kisses so sweet.

“What-what kind of emergency?” Thomas had breathed out, eyes fluttering.  Vessel defeated, accomplishment logged, Miranda saved the game and put it all on pause.

“Oh, I’m sure James and I can think of one or two,” She’d whispered into her husband’s ear, grinning when James pulled back and noticed at long last that she’d won.  In record time too.   _Priorities._

“Jesus fucking Christ, Miranda.”  He’d growled, arms tightening around their lover.  “Real ships _don’t_ work like that!” He’d insisted again.  Petulant as a _child._

“Mm...but this one does.”  She’d caught his mouth in a kiss, listening as Thomas moaned.  “And I’m the Captain of ours.”  For a split second, no one said a thing, and then James couldn’t seem to handle it any longer than that.

He’d thrown his head back and laughed so hard it’d ruined everything entirely.  Tears had pushed at his eyes and he’d laughed himself into a coughing fit that had Thomas patting his back and Miranda rolling her eyes toward the sky at the complete immaturity their household seemed to be in a constant state of —  always.

They’d needed to give up on the very tempting premise of sex, then, because James simply hadn’t been able to get over whatever mental image he’d conjured at her statement.  But later in the evening, they’d had quite the memorable time.  Memorable enough that whenever Miranda gets in the car with her husband she’s reminded fondly of that ridiculous app he downloaded because he’s honestly _such_ a stickler for the rules.

It’s almost peaceful.  Knowing some things won’t ever change.  James laughs at the most absurd comments far longer than he has any business laughing about anything, Miranda finds peace only when they’re all together, and Thomas is a very safe driver.

The road to Colchester is long and winding.  The weather a slushy rain.  Thomas has his lights on, his wipers at the appropriate speed.  There’s slush building up where the wipers collect the water and deposit it off the sides of the windscreen.  Thomas’ blue eyes remain fixed on the road, even as she reaches across the space between them to put her hand on his leg.  She’d prefer to hold his hand properly, but he won’t take one off while he’s driving.

Always two hands on the wheel.   _Always._

“Is Madi going to be there?” Miranda asks him quietly.  There’s a brief pause in the rain as they go under a bridge, and then it starts up again just as quickly.  If she were still a religious woman, she’d think it were a sign.  God not blessing them with a sunny day for their travel.  Their fate sealed.  

She thinks it’s a very good thing that she’s not religious.

“She’s riding in with Jack,” Thomas confirms.  

Good.  “She’s seen John, right?” Miranda asks, biting her lip.  She’s missed her friend since this whole business started.  Missed not being able to at least talk to her directly.  But if she can only get updates from Thomas in small vague terms, she’ll take what she can get.  And right now, she can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Madi these past few days.

Thomas takes a moment to respond.  More focused on a merge that he’s performing than her.  But when he’s completed his task, he hums.  “Yes.  She’s been out to visit him as often as she can.”  

They’re almost onto the A12, and from there it’s just a matter of time until they reach the court.  Thomas’ hands are tight on the steering wheel.  “Are you nervous?” Miranda asks him.  He glances at her once.  Briefly.  A flick in her direction that’s pure out of character and full of desperation.

And he doesn’t lie.  

“Yeah.” His hands squeeze harder, and her fingers flex on his leg.  “I am.”

***

A throng of photographers and journalists have converged by the entrance, and Thomas needed to angle their umbrella to be as obstructive as possible as they hurried through the mess.  It’s a closed session, and this is as far as the media will be allowed access.  A serviceman approached and requested identification just to be certain.  Miranda guesses that they’ve been dealing with nosy newsmen all week.  Thankfully, Jack already sorted their approval to sit in.

“Jackles, all of them,” Jack tells them with a wry twist of his lips as they find him and Madi just outside the Courtroom doors.  He’s already got his robe on and his wig in hand.  Madi is wearing a rich blue blouse and black slacks, a black hijab carefully set into place without a wrinkle at all.  She looks extremely well put together, and Miranda cannot help herself.  She runs to her and wraps her arms around her.

The hug is fierce and reciprocated with spine fracturing intensity.  Madi’s brow burrows into her shoulder.  She’s mumbling something Miranda can’t here, but Miranda doesn’t _care._ “How are you doing?”  she asks.

“Terrible,” Madi admits.  She’s started to cry a little, and excuses herself to turn and wipe away the tears.  Miranda allows her the space, and when Madi turns back she looks at Thomas and hurries to hug him as well.  “I’m so sorry for the position that I’ve put you in,” she says quietly.

“Nonsense, there’s no position I’m in now that I’ve not made entirely for myself already.” Thomas grins.  “Is John here yet?” he asks Jack.

“They got caught in traffic with the sleet, but they’ll be here—”

Someone calls Jack’s name and he grins at Madi with a rakish smile and a bold wink.  Then he’s turning on his heel and hurrying down the hall.  “Do you remember how this will work?” Thomas asks Madi, changing tack now that Jack’s gone.  She nods shakily, twisting her hands together at her front.  

She’s not someone who does submissive and meek well.  Miranda’s seen Madi stand bold faced in front of the lion’s den of media moguls and hold her ground better than someone with four times her age and experience.  She’s a competent, brave, and exceptionally talented publicist.  But every person on earth has a weak point, and somehow in the past five years: John Silver has very clearly become hers.

If they weren’t so beautiful together, Miranda would almost feel bad for facilitating their meeting.  But from the moment they’d met, it’d been like watching the ocean meet the sand.  A long time coming, and impossible to stop.  

While Thomas asks Madi gentle questions, Miranda casts her eyes about.  This place hasn’t changed much since John’s first trial.  In fact, she’s fairly certain the same clippings are where they were five years ago.  The same men are on patrol.  The same smudges are on the tile.  Everything is exactly the same.

A door opens.  Miranda recognizes the sound of those footsteps.  Madi turns abruptly, and there’s John being led over to them by Jack.  Nothing in the world could stop Madi from running to her husband.  They crash together like high tide, and Miranda slips her hand into Thomas’ as they watch.  He gives her palm a squeeze.

John looks like hell.

His clothes are neat and orderly.  Madi had picked something very proper for him to wear.  But his skin is far too pale all things considered, and his smile looks far less magical as it usually does.  He reminds Miranda far too much of the John from five years ago.  Staring at the bench as the sentence is delivered, not truly understanding what’s going on around him.

They don’t have time to greet him personally.  It’s their turn into court, and Jack informs Madi that she’ll need to stay with Thomas and Miranda while he gets his client situated.  They go to find a place in the courtroom together.  She and Thomas bracket Madi as they sit. Thomas to Madi’s left, and Miranda to her right.  They hold her hands.  John glances back from the bench.  Offers them a smile.  It’s brittle and exhausted.  Miranda cannot help but wondering if he’s gotten any sleep at all.

Sliding her eyes to the left, Miranda scowls at Anthony Singleton.  He’s a Warrant Officer now, though God knows why someone saw fit to let him stay in the service this long.  He and Thomas had served together and had conducted cases together when Thomas had still been a Naval Barrister.  

He was not on their Christmas card list.

They’re not in the Crown Court at the moment.  Which is the only nice thing about it being a court martial.  John can sit with Jack at the bench.  He’s not bound in any way, and he has a degree of freedom.  

Even so, as they get seated into position, it feels like a time from years ago.  There’s a row of high ranking military personnel on the right.  A door opens to the left, and the soldier turned court clerk declares “All rise,” with a firm voice.  They do as requested as their Judge Advocate enters.  They’re in luck, Miranda supposes.  The High Court Judge that had been selected for this matter is Judge Bartholomew Gates.

A heavy man with squinting eyes and crooked teeth, Judge Gates has a reputation for being shrewd but fair.  Miranda had presented more than a few cases in front of him, and she knows Thomas has as well.  He’s a decent man all things considered.  One who takes his job seriously, and is a moderate in both public practice and personal belief.  He’s a good pick for John, and considering this whole sham of a Court Martial that had a _bail_ application in the first place, Miranda’s happy to see him.  

“Service personnel can remove their headdress,” Gates informs the room pointedly.  Several people do just that.  Opening remarks are made and a review of John’s previous case is brought forth.  Everyone sits and listens patiently as the details are once again discussed.  “In light of recent events,” Gates continues once he’s made it clear that John had been deemed innocent of the previous charges held against him.  “New and compelling evidence have deemed it necessary for this court to reexamine the circumstances around the explosion at Northwood.  The dates of this trial have not yet been set, but as this is a criminal matter we will be proceeding forth with the bail application process now.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Jack is invited to state his case.  He clears his throat.  Then stands.  “My client is innocent,” Jack starts.  He’s got a slight arch in his back that’s all the more obvious when watching him from behind.  And he has a tendency to lean with his palms against the table like he’s talking down to someone.  “Five years ago he stood in this courtroom and was declared innocent and cleared of all charges in connection with the Northwood disaster.  He lost a friend, a leg, and a promising career in the Navy that day, and has received nothing but scrutiny and doubt since it occurred.  The _new and compelling_ evidence that has been provided is _not_ substantiated by—”

“—Your honor?” Singleton rises from his seat.  “My learned friend is delivering a speech, not a bail application.”

Jack scowls at him.  “It’s a speech directly in line _with_ the bail application as it’s getting to the heart of the matter.”

“Get there quickly, then?” Gates suggests, tilting his head forward and showing quite plainly that his patience is at its end.

Bowing his head, Jack clears his throat once more.  “My client had been cleared of all charges.   _If_ he had in fact secretly got away with his involvement at Northwood, before the police issued their warrant, one would assume he’d have left already.  Before he could be arrested.  The new and compelling evidence relies on Thomas Hamilton’s misconduct which has not been proven or substantiated.  And of the two defense barristers that were working alongside each other, it wasn’t Thomas Hamilton that told John Silver about his impending arrest.  It was Peter Ashe.”  He pauses.  Nobody says anything, moves, or whispers.  The effect, quite simply, is lost.  “John Silver was told before his arrest that he was going to be arrested.  If my client were guilty, he would have chosen that opportunity to run.  He stayed behind, set his affairs in order, and was arrested on Christmas Eve.  Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to attend a bail application until at least the twenty-seventh—it’s now the second of the new year—and yet still, he didn’t run.”

Finally, Gates makes a note on his paperwork in front of him.  Finally, Miranda starts feeling some of the anxiety lessen around her heart.  “He stayed,” Jack states firmly.  “He stayed, and he is willing to stand trial to prove that he is innocent _again._ These are not the actions of a man who has any intentions of skipping bail.  He volunteers at a community center and he teaches children how to read and write.  If you grant him bail, I can assure you that he will be standing here at his trial, without so much as a hiccup.  There is no quantifiable risk that he will fail to appear, nor is there anything to suggest that he wouldn’t.  He’s neither a harm to himself, nor under suspicion that he’ll cause further harm to others.  I firmly submit that there is no case to not grant him this right.”

He sits slowly, bowing  his head toward Gates and offering his thank you.  Singleton isn’t nearly as respectful.  He bounds from his seat.  “No _quantifiable risk_ that he’ll fail to appear?” Singleton asks.  “His co-defendant, Laith Muldoon was also meant to be arrested.  But the police have yet to locate him.  Isn’t that right?”

Getting back to his feet, Jack actually has the audacity to smile.  “If you’re suggesting that when Peter Ashe told _his own client,_ and Mr. Silver that they were about to be arrested in order to entice them to leave before that happened, then really it’s Peter Ashe’s documentation we should be reviewing for this case.  Not Thomas Hamilton’s.”  There’s a pause.  Singleton looks taken aback, like he hadn’t quite expected that response.

“Is there any evidence that Mr. Ashe did indeed inform both Mr. Silver and Mr. Muldoon about the arrest?” Gates asks.

Jack’s smile grows.  “Yes of course, would the court deem it in the public’s interest to know that Mr. Ashe had all but encouraged his former client and co-defendant to flee from arrest?  If the court does, we do have it on record.”  He holds up a tape recorder, then.  Like it’s the Holy Grail itself.  “It was taken at the Islamic Community Center where Mr. Muldoon and Silver work.”

Singleton’s baffled.  He’s blinking at Jack like he can’t quite see what’s happening in front of him, and Madi’s hand suddenly crushes Miranda’s in the fierceness of her grip.  Gates nods his head, and the record is played.  

“—What the fuck is he doing here?” Laith asks, his voice sounding garbled, like it’s being muffled around clothing of some sort.  The recorder is in one of their pockets.  John’s most likely.

“I’m sure he’s here to give us his full and total support,” John replies sardonically over the recording.

When Peter starts talking, it’s ever so clearly him.  His cultured tone slides over the names, “Silver….Muldoon…” as a greeting that tickles Miranda’s spine.  

“Our second-favorite defense barrister,” John greets sarcastically.  “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I wanted to let you know.  You’ll be arrested soon.  Saturday night.”

“What on Christmas Eve?”

“Surprised you even know when that is.  Thought you lot didn’t celebrate it.”

Laith’s scathing response is the most aggravated Miranda’s ever heard him, “Hard not to know when a damn national holiday is, even if it is _our_ lot.”

“You’re going to go to jail for a long time.  The both of you.”

“The fuck do we have to do with any of this?” Laith asks.  

“They’ll find out, Muldoon.   _Silver._  About your involvement.  I knew you two were bastards from the start, and they’ll find out.  And you’re never going to be free men again.”  It’s exactly the kind of terrorizing logic that Miranda had feared had happened when John told her about the conversation.  He’d been right.  Peter _had_ tried to scare them into running.  

Singleton looks as though he’s just been given everything on a golden platter.  When the recording ends, he waves his hand.  “As you can see, your honor.  Mr. Muldoon’s own defense barrister _knew_ of their guilt.  John Silver got away with a terrorist act five years ago, and he should not be permitted leave to possibly do so again.”

“My learned friend is absolutely right,” Jack says.  “Mr. _Muldoon’s_ own defense barrister knew of their _alleged_ guilt.  That being said, I wonder if it wouldn’t be prudent to point out that Mr. Ashe’s files and documentation should therefore, also be opened and submitted into evidence for the impending trial.  If he knew of this guilt, I’d be fascinated to see it for myself.  In the meantime, Mr. Silver didn’t run when he had the chance.  And that’s very much the point.  He stayed exactly where he was, and let himself get arrested.”

For a single, solitary moment, there is silence.  Silence as Gates looks from one barrister to another.  Looks at John, and seems to measure him entirely on his posture at the bench.  Shoulders back, hands folded in his lap.  “There will be conditions,” Gates informs them, and Madi gasps as the realization becomes clear.  “Mr. Silver is to have no contact with Mr. Muldoon, Peter Ashe, or any of their affiliates.  He is to restrict himself to a curfew of eighteen hundred hours each night.”

“In regards to the affiliates,” Jack interjects.  “I feel it necessary to point out that Mr. Silver’s wife attends the same Mosque as him, and they both work at the same community center.  Those affiliates would include everyone Silver knows personally including his spouse.”

“I am willing to grant an exception for Mrs. Silver, provided that she follow the same stipulations.”

Madi’s standing before either Miranda or Thomas can stop her.  “I am, your honor.”  All eyes snap to her, though John turns more slowly.  Tired expression so inexorably fond.  Gates scowls at the interruption but waves his hand.

“Then bail is granted.  Trail to start no later than the first of the month.  I expect to see details of Peter Ashe’s involvement at court.”  He pauses.  “Prepare your cases gentlemen.” Then, he stands.  Everyone else following suit as protocol dictates.  “Dismissed.”  He bows his head, the barristers return the gesture, and just outside the window the sun finally peeks through the clouds.

The storm is over.


	14. Chapter 14

Madi sits in their backseat, and John curls against her.   He’s asleep before they even pull back out onto the A12.  The bail had been set at twenty thousand pounds, and Thomas had paid it before Madi could even think twice.  Miranda saw her working her jaw in an attempt to convince herself that she should argue, before eventually nodding her her head and accepting it.  

John’s hardly said a word to any of them.  Hugs were exchanged and the standard words of greeting were given here and there, but he’s quiet and monosyllabic for the most part.  Going where he’s led and without even the slightest bit of care or attention toward his surroundings.

The journalists had tried desperately for a comment, but he’d kept his head down and his hand around Madi’s.  Not saying a word.  Miranda glances back at him from the conversation mirror just above the rearview.  Even in sleep, his face seems twisted in pain.

Jack’s driving behind them back to Miranda, Thomas, and James’ home.  John and Madi are going to be staying in their guest room.  It will be safer and more private than their flat.  With the added bonus of allowing Jack to work on all of their cases at once.  

Gates had been generous with the shortlist of people John was allowed to see.  As far as acquaintances were concerned, Jack had made a point that John’s innocence depended on Thomas being a part of his testimony and in good conscious the two cases could not be considered separate.  Allowing them to converse only seemed like a natural extension of their trial. 

“Thank you,” Madi says for the umpteenth time. 

“You’re welcome,” Miranda replies once more.  She’s given up trying to tell Madi not to worry about it.  Not to think about it.  That they would do it again in a heartbeat.  It doesn’t matter.  Right now, the act of expressing gratitude is all Madi can do.  It is nothing for Miranda to accept that gratitude and provide an appropriate response.  One that doesn’t diminish her feelings.  One that accepts that they did something  _ worth  _ her gratitude. 

John’s not spending the night in prison because Thomas paid his bail.  It’s not  _ nothing.  _ Not to Madi.  Not to them.  Certainly not to John. 

“He stayed with us the first time,” Miranda tells Madi.  She isn’t sure if Madi knew that.  “After he’d won his trial.  He didn’t have a flat of his own anymore, and he couldn’t return to the Navy.  So he stayed with us for several weeks while he tried to find a place to live.” 

Madi’s hand strokes through John’s curls before she speaks.  As though she’s memorizing the very texture of his hair.  “John told me he was a horrible house guest.”  Her husband’s nose tilts closer to her thigh.  His knees shuffle even closer to his chest.  He looks like a dog, all curled up like that.  Buttonholed into a circle. 

“He wasn’t,” Thomas replies for Miranda.  He doesn’t take his eyes off the road.  But Miranda can see that it’s taking all of his willpower not to glance into the conversation mirror at least once.  Just to look.  Just to see.  

Back then, John had been quiet and almost  _ too  _ helpful.  He’d tried to assist the servants as they cleaned.  Tried to cook for them when he still hadn’t mastered using his new leg or crutches appropriately.  More than once they’d have to run to the kitchen after hearing a crash.  Explosive curses bouncing off tiled walls. 

Leaving as soon as he’d found a place to live, Miranda doesn’t remember him causing them any undue burden.  There were nightmares, of course.  But their house had hardly been virginal when it came to  _ those.   _ Thomas has had nightmares since he was a child, and James occasionally sees faces of his men after they’ve been blown to bits in the night.  Miranda spends the majority of her day working with people coming from their own personal versions of hell, that her subconscious wouldn’t see fit to torture her with it too is laughable at best. 

They knew how to handle one another, though.  

With James, they cannot wake him through touch.  Thomas can bark a command at him, force him awake by triggering his mind into believing he’s on his ship and needed on duty.  They have to talk him down afterwards, but it ends the thrashing and shouts of dismay.  Miranda cannot mimic that.  But she does have a boatswain’s pipe that does the trick just as well.  She keeps it by the bed for when the night gets rough, and nothing works better to jerk James from his dreams than that. 

Thomas rarely wakes once a nightmare takes hold.  He’s a heavy sleeper on most accounts, and once he’s locked in, there’s little anyone can do to rouse him from it.  They have had success in changing the dream, though.  When he starts murmuring under his breath or kicking unconsciously, talking to him and stroking his arms or chest seem to work best.  Miranda’s spent countless hours with James, awake with Thomas between them, talking softly about all manner of pleasant things until Thomas settles and they felt confident in his ability to rest. 

Miranda is neither violent when she is woken from a dream, nor impossible to rouse.  She’s been shaken into consciousness more than a few times.  Her worried lovers looking to her in hopes that she’s all right.  Sometimes she can settle immediately.  Usually she curls against one of their chests.  Crying and telling them the awful things she saw.  

The night is a devil for them all. 

John’s terrors had hardly felt any different. 

It had been James who expected them initially.  When Thomas and Miranda had, for some reason, ignored the possibility.  James’ unfortunate photo op with John had been the result of one of those panic-induced terrors.  Where he’d sat beside his friend, his  _ brother,  _ and held him through the pain and loss of a tragedy no one else had bothered to help him through.  Miranda doesn’t know why she hadn’t considered John’s sleep patterns back then.  She only knows that from the first time it happened, to well after John had moved out, James had always been the one to look in on him. 

She’d only seen it once.  The first night, she’d been startled awake by a loud crash.  James had been up and out of the bed before she’d even understood what was happening.  Even Thomas blinking blearily awake at the sudden change.  She’d hurried after James and found him kneeling at John’s bedside.  John crumpled on the floor.  Hyperventilating as he grabbed at his leg. 

_ “I can’t move.  Lieutenant—something’s wrong with my leg, and I can’t move.  But I have to find Vincent.  I have to—he was right there.  He was right there.  I—”  _

Thomas had to pull Miranda away.  She’d frozen in the doorway.  Staring numbly as James held John to his chest.  Letting him run through the full melee of emotions.  He’d needed to pick John up bodily and put him back to bed.  John never could remember his left leg no longer existed when he woke from a dream. 

A part of Miranda wants to ask Madi if that’s still the case.  If John’s nightmares persisted to this day, and did she struggle to rouse him when he started talking about Petty Officer Vincent Collins like he was still alive.  

If she thought it would help, Miranda wishes she could just videotape John while he slept.  Videotape him and show the world  _ exactly  _ how he felt about the bomb that went off at Northwood.  How a simple late night trip back to the office to pick up some paperwork had ended in the death of a friend and the loss of his leg.  How that one trip had seen him on trial for  _ terrorism.  _

He then proceeded to donate his money and volunteer at a community center.  The world didn’t deserve John Silver.  But  _ for  _ him, Miranda would do whatever she could to ensure he received proper justice.  He deserved no less. 

“We want you to stay with us,” Miranda tells Madi firmly.  “We want you to feel comfortable in our home.  And while I understand you’ll want to thank us, please know that we don’t expect anything from you.  We want you safe and as happy as you can manage.  That’s all.” 

It’s not all.  But it’s all they can do for now.  So for now, it’s a start. 

***

John sleeps the whole way back to London.  When they arrive home, there’s some reporters camped out, but the lateness of the hour seems to have scared the majority of them away.  They duck their heads and hurry inside before anyone can get too clear of a shot.  

Thomas draws the blinds and tells them that he bought fresh clothing for them to change into for the night.  Someone will be by their apartment to pick up some clothes later.  John stands awkwardly in their sitting room, Madi still clinging to his arm.  The dark circles only look worse as Thomas sets to lighting a fire in the fireplace.  

“I think we could all do with a celebration, no?” Jack suggests as he shakes out his coat and hangs it on the rack.  He meets them in the sitting room, and fetches glasses for everyone, though no one has responded to his offer.  Miranda holds her drink in her hands like it’s something fragile and easily broken.  “To victory!” 

“It’s a bail application,” John says.  He knocks back the two fingers of whiskey without so much as batting an eye.  He takes Madi’s glass from hers and does the same, and seems ready to wrestle Thomas for his as well.  Thomas hands it to him without complaint.  Watching him with his lips pressed together and face passive.  Third drink gone and Jack staring at John like he intends to self destruct right there by the fire, John laughs the most hollow sounding laugh Miranda’s ever heard.  “The only thing we’ve won is time.” 

No one says a thing when John drags himself up the stairs.  The plumbing clinks in the walls.  The shower starting up.  Good.  John deserves  _ that  _ at the very least.  Madi stands awkwardly without her husband at her side.  Not knowing if she should follow him or stay.  “He needs time,” Thomas tells her quietly.  “It takes time.” 

Madi shakes her head, “He had time.  Five years.  The court deemed that he was innocent.  He had five years worth of time to recover from that.  And in one week they have undone the work he has put into finding his peace.”  Her hands clench into fists.  She’s shaking with rage.  “He had  _ time.  _  This….this will take more than  _ time  _ to fix.” 

There’s no point in arguing.  No point in disagreeing.  Miranda approaches her friend.  She meets her eyes.  “Yes.  And we’ll do what we can to ensure that he has what he needs.  They won’t get away with this.”

“Right now, our battle plan is fixated on two things,” Jack says.  Clearing his throat.  “One, proving that Thomas didn’t withhold any information that he should have disclosed to the prosecution to make their case.  Two, shifting the blame of malpractice and interference onto Peter Ashe.” 

“You mentioned that in court,” Thomas cuts in quickly.  “You specifically brought up Peter’s documents.  Why?” 

“If there’s nothing there, then all I’ll have proven is that both you and Peter acted perfectly within the boundaries of your profession and that neither had committed any kind of malpractice,” Jack explains just as quick.  But it’s too quick for Jack.  It’s the kind of practiced line that Miranda kept in the back of her head whenever she had to go on trial.  When someone asked a question and she needed to prove her reasoning.  It’s rehearsed and prepared to be backed up with facts and premade conclusions. 

She wants to ask him about it.  Wants to pressure him for more.  Thomas has picked up on it too.  He’s frowning heavily.  Looking more than a little concerned.   _ “If?”  _ he presses. 

“I have reason to believe that there  _ will  _ be something to find.” 

“Like what?” Miranda asks.  Madi’s been quiet thus far.  She’s frowning at Jack, though.  Waiting for a reply that makes sense to her too. 

He opens his mouth to say something.  Closes it.  Looks between the three of them like he wants nothing more than to speak, but is being held back by something.  Someone.  “We’re here together to prove John’s innocence, Jack.  What do you know?” Thomas asks.  His fingers have started twisting his wedding band.  Jack swallows thickly.  Eyes flicking down as Thoma rotates the band over and over again.  

Not long ago it was Thomas keeping secrets.  Muldoon’s whereabouts still a mystery.  Yet here he is now.  John safely upstairs and Madi with them.  Jack’s likely all too aware of the discrepancy.  “I’m not sure yet,” Jack says at long last.  

Thomas lets out a puff of air.  A balloon stabbed with a needle.  Loud and violent and disappointed.  He drops his hands to his side and pours himself a drink in the glass John abandoned.  “I don’t have the documentation to prove my theory.” 

“If you have a theory that means that you’ve got a hypothesis at the very least,” Thomas snaps.  Madi shakes her head and mumbles an excuse.  She leaves the room at long last, and Miranda wonders what did it this time.  What caused her to move upstairs.  If it had been Thomas or—no. She’s going to John.  If she can’t get answers from  _ them,  _ she’ll get it from John.  And she’s the only one in this household that would open that door while he’s trying to wash so she can pester him with questions. 

With Madi gone, though, it gives Miranda and Thomas the chance to close in on Jack at all sides. Slipping in closer.  Bracketing him in front of the desk.  Not allowing him the chance to wriggle through or escape.  “What do you  _ think  _ you’ll find in Peter’s notes?” Miranda asks. 

Jack bites his lip.  He keeps looking between the two of them nervously.  As though they were moments away from causing physical harm.  It’s not either of their styles.  But they know how to pressure someone when they need to.  And their friendship with Jack has always been something he’s valued.  “I think you were right,” he says slowly, glancing up at Thomas briefly before flicking his eyes away.  “All those years ago, when you argued that Teach and the others fit Silver and Muldoon up for their crime.  But there’s only one way they could have been sure the entire process worked from start to finish, and that’s if someone knew the legal system and had influence in it.” 

After the jury proclaimed their verdict regarding Laith and John, Thomas had dedicated himself to bringing down every other person involved in the case.  He volunteered information to the prosecution.  He provided notes and research.  He’d proven John’s innocence by providing an alternative theory and arguing it so effectively that the prosecution had no grounds to deny the weight of his evidence.  Then he worked to ensure that same prosecution have  _ all  _ the evidence necessary to send Teach away for life. 

But, he shouldn’t have  _ had  _ to work so hard in the first place.  His burden had been to provide enough doubt that the jury couldn’t unanimously declare John guilty.  It hadn’t been to find the real perpetrators and instead prove how they did it while John couldn’t possibly have been involved.  Nothing short of doing so would have been satisfactory, time and again everyone involved in the case pointed the finger at John and Laith.  He’d had no choice but to find an answer to every problem and talk his way around it. 

“You think Peter intended for Laith and John to plead guilty in order to protect Teach?” Miranda asks slowly. 

Jack swallows.  “I think the reason the prosecution had a case against Laith and John in the first place was because they had access to informants, witnesses, and documents that they had no reason to see.  I think the reason that Thomas is going to have no problem proving he had no misconduct in the trial is because there is a mountain of evidence the prosecution had access to that well and truly surpasses any reasonable case.  Thomas couldn’t have withheld anything, they had John’s life story in the palms of their hands.  They knew his credit card history, for God’s sake.”

“But someone put them on that path,” Thomas concludes.  He closes his eyes and presses his hand to his face.  Rubbing at the bridge of his nose.  “Someone put them on that path.” 

“It wasn’t you  _ not  _ feeding information to the prosecution that’s the problem,” Jack agrees.  “It’s someone  _ else  _ feeding excessive information for the sole purpose of distracting from the actual culprits involved.” 

Thomas pours himself another drink, and Miranda needs to sit down.  She collapses into the sofa and feels the weight of the world crushing down on her shoulders.  Peter Ashe had been their friend for years.  They’d known him since they were children.  He lived just down the road from Thomas.  His parents and Thomas’ had been good friends.  They went to school together.  

They’d gone to the Navy together.  

He knew them better than anyone else in the world, save James.  Something cold crawls around Miranda’s gut.  Detective Hornigold’s words starting to wriggle in the back of her mind.  Someone close to them had stolen her photos.  Had physically put their hands on her computer to take the images.  

What benefit would stealing her photos have for someone like Peter Ashe?  What could he possibly have gained from publishing them like he did?  

Thomas and Jack keep talking, and Miranda leans over her knees.  Covers her ears with her palms so she can shut them out.  Shut them out and  _ think.  _  Why would Peter have done this?  What does he gain from a trial like this bringing everything he did out into the light?

_ The election?  _

“What’s Peter’s relationship with Woodes Rogers?” she asks aloud.  She’s certain she’s interrupting, but she doesn’t care.  She sits up straight.  Turns to meet her husband’s eyes.  He catches on less than a fraction of a second later.  

His fingers twitch at his sides.  His teeth clench down.  “Friendly,” Thomas replies.  “They’re quite friendly with each other.” 

“I hardly think Peter Ashe would be foolish enough to publish your photos and draw attention to a relationship that could have brought all this to trial,” Jack refutes quickly.  “If he was involved with Teach, then he got away with it.  He’s not in prison right now.  Which means that he wouldn’t benefit in the least if someone started poking around his documents and history.”

No.  He  _ wouldn’t  _ benefit.  Miranda grits her teeth and tries to think.  She’s missing something.  Something obvious that should explain this whole mess.  Occam's Razor makes it very clear.  The simplest explanation is usually the right explanation.  There’s an easy answer that ties it all together, and she cannot for the life of her put her finger on it. 

Her husband starts to pace.  He works better on his feet.  It’s something his staff in Parliament had always gently teased him about.  If he was at his desk he wasn’t thinking.  But on his feet, it was as if his brain and spine were connected in one.  New ideas spurring him physically into action.  He needed to move.  Wanted to move.  Had to get it all out. 

Jack watches with a kind of uncertain twist to his expression.  He hunches over.  Arms crossed.  Back bent.  He’s still hiding something, but perhaps he truly has to by now.  Perhaps John’s informed him of something that Jack truly cannot share.  He can lead them to an idea, but he can’t share it without permission.  They need to discover it all on their own. 

Well.  They’re well read.  They can solve a good mystery when one arrives.  Though it’s far less fun when the mystery is in fact their own lives.  Miranda folds her palms together.  She tries to recall everything she knows about Peter Ashe.  But instead of facts and figures and solid moments that could help them with Jack’s hypothesis, all she gets is one image that burns hot and vivid in her mind. 

When she was fifteen, Thomas ran away from home.  The police came by her house and asked her questions.   _ You’re his closest friend, where is he?  _ And she’d lied and said she didn’t know.  Because that’s what friends do.  They lie for each other.  

Peter had been eighteen, and home from university.  His parents had heard from Miranda’s about Thomas’ disappearance, and he’d been sent to talk some sense into her.  Everyone knew she knew where Thomas was.  She’d told them she was happy he ran away.  Happy that he wasn’t getting abused by his father anymore.  She said it bluntly, as many times as she could.  Every adult in the room just sighed and told her that Thomas wasn’t being abused by his father.  She was mistaken.  It’s not good to lie.  The only lie she told was that she didn’t know where Thomas was.  And if they were going to call her a liar, she’d keep saying that one until the day she died. 

_ How bad was it?  _ Peter asked her when they were alone.  No one else had asked.  No one else had asked why  _ now  _ after all these years, Thomas finally decided enough was enough.  But Peter had.  Peter had, and Miranda brought him to Thomas only because she didn’t know what else to do.  She couldn’t take him to a hospital, and he needed a hospital.  

Peter went to the store and bought antibiotics and bandages.  He helped her take care of Thomas’ back and check for broken bones.  He bought food and water and clothes.   _ I’m going to talk to his father,  _ Peter told Miranda.   _ This is never going to happen again.  _

She’d argued that Alfred Hamilton would never get the chance to touch his son again, but Peter reminded her that sooner or later someone would find Thomas and bring him home.  Too much time had passed.  If they’d left with a plan in mind days prior, they might have managed to escape, but the police were looking for Thomas.  They’d never get away.  

Peter left them then, and three days later he came back.   _ One more time,  _ Peter had told Thomas.   _ Go back one more time, and if he touches you again, I’ll buy you a plane ticket myself.  For both you and Miranda.  _  Because she was always going to go with him.   _ I’ll get you both out of here.  Just go back one more time.  _

For some reason, Thomas did.  And his father never touched him again. 

“What’s your  _ father’s  _ relationship with Woodes Rogers?” Miranda asks quietly.  Thomas’ pacing comes to an abrupt halt.  

“Son of a bitch,” he curses. 

“Thomas?” Jack asks.  Nervous and uncertain.  But it doesn’t matter.  Thomas is already leaving.  Flying out the door and grabbing his coat and keys on the way.  Miranda tries to chase after him, but he’s already in the car.  Too long legs carrying him across the distance before she could even wrap her mind around what his intentions truly were. 

She stands barefoot on the top step of her home, and is frozen as she watches Thomas drive furiously into the night.  He even forgets his turn signal as his car whips around the corner and speeds angrily down the road. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Miranda will be discussing the medical and physical examination and treatment of an underage child who has been involved in sex trafficking.

“Where’d he go?” Jack asks when Miranda manages to step back inside her house.  She doesn’t have an answer for him.  Maybe he drove to Peter’s.  Maybe he drove to his parents’ home.  Maybe he drove to an airport to send himself far away from all of them and all their interpretations of the truth.  

“I don’t know,” she says.  She feels like she’s wading through mud. Fighting back a monsoon that’s threatening to wash her all away.  She walks, dazed, toward the stairs.  “He won’t be back tonight,” she tells Jack.  Even if Thomas does return, he won’t be up for talking to Jack.  

It’s perhaps a bit rude.  She should see him out properly.  Be a proper host.  But all she can think about right now is running away herself.  Going someplace where she can hide and be alone for a moment, without having to put on a show for someone else.  

“Miranda,” Jack calls just before she can make her escape.  She is rooted to the ground.  Locked in place.  Turned to stone from a gorgon’s gaze.  “Thomas is going to be all right.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she says quietly.  She doesn’t turn to watch him leave, but she listens to it.  Listens as he walks out the front door.  Closing it behind him.  Miranda stumbles up the stairs.  Taking one tortured step at a time.  

She can hear Madi talking to John down the hall, but she doesn’t have any desire to listen in on them.  They deserve their privacy.

Instead, she walks to her own room.  Closes the door behind her.  She doesn’t turn on the lights.  She knows this room and all its sculpted perfection.  The neat and orderly way it’s all been put together.  The vanity and the dressers.  The boudoir and the en suite.  The master bedroom of this house comes from a time from long ago, and they have relished in its many advantages.

She sludges through the thick air to her boudoir.  She leans against the door and holds onto it like a mooring.  She pulls herself inside and collapses on a chaise where she has spent many hours lounging in decadent delight.  Her lovers kissing their way along her body.  Massaging her shoulders.  Brushing her hair.

She and Thomas relish in the chance to give James such treatment.  She can imagine James before her now.  Lying on this chaise.  His uniform still on after rushing over straight from command.  The first day of leave always a delight and a treasure.

It takes time to strip away the dutiful soldier and reveal the tender heart of her dearest friend beneath.  So long at sea or Wherever They Send Him, it creates a façade of the real man beneath.  A kind of facsimile of the man she loves.  

Nothing pleases her more than to strip him layer by layer.  Leaving the soldier behind.  Tossing the uniform to the side for proper drycleaning in the morning.  Scaling his freckled skin with her soft hands and watching the hair stand up on his flesh as he relaxes beneath her.

Thomas kissing James so effortlessly gentle.  Smiling and resting his brow against his.  As though they could meld their minds together.  Form one thought and one person.  Be as they always were meant to be.  

This room is their haven.  Their place to strip away the outside and relish the inside.  Miranda hugs a pillow to her chest and tries not to think about where Thomas might have gone.  Tries not to think about how he’s likely returned home.  How for years she watched him leave, watched him go back to that awful house, only for him to come back twisted in a new way she’d never been able to account for.

She breathes harshly through her nose.  She feels her clothes squeezing her like tangled vines.  Her hair crawls along her neck like a spider’s spindly legs.  She swats at it angry and impassioned.  Her breath is coming too harsh, too quick.  

It’s been a long time since she’s had a good and proper panic attack, and she hates how she can feel it now.  The rapid pulse within her chest.  The tightness.  The twisting of her mind.  The fierce tight presence of the walls.  Her sanctuary turning into a cage.  Demonic and twisting and dark.  She rips her shirt from her body.  Fights with the button on her slacks but rids herself of them as well.

Standing up, she trips on the legs, but kicks them aside.  Catching herself on a dresser filled with items that make her smile.  The top drawer has a bottle of pills and she knows she’s not supposed to take them with alcohol, but she also knows there’s no point if she can’t calm herself now.  Tapping one into her palm she closes the bottle and stumbles to the en suite.  Tossing the pill in her mouth and cupping water under the faucet to swallow it down.

She looks at herself in the mirror.  Looks long and hard.  She feels like she’s tearing herself in half.  Feels like a child.  Crying and sobbing and throwing herself into her furniture like a useless thing.

James’ voice rings like a drill sergeant in her ear.   _Stop that right now._

Her hands tighten against the dresser.  

_Take a breath._

She breathes in.

_Get yourself together.  Give yourself time to let the medicine work._

“I shouldn’t need medicine,” she tells her reflection stubbornly.  “I should be able to do it on my own.”

_Should someone with cancer not take chemotherapy?  Should they just get better on their own?_

She knows the answer to that.  Has stared at James’ face and tried arguing it’s not the same.  But he’s annoyingly accurate and precise.  Frustratingly determined whenever she or Thomas try the same old and useless arguments with him. He makes them repeat his reasoning when he’s done.  Makes them say it for themselves.   _Say it._

“I have a chemical imbalance in my brain,” she tells her reflection.  “I am clinically depressed and have an anxiety disorder.  And taking medicine doesn’t make me a failure.  It doesn’t make me weak.  It means I’m taking care of myself.”

She closes her eyes.  “I’m taking care of myself.”

Her knees feel wobbly so she lets herself fall.  Lets herself slide down the counter until she’s resting on the tiled floor of her bathroom.  The grand tub is before her, and she crawls to it.  Turning the faucets so it runs nice and hot.  

There are candles and matches, so she lights them.  Turns on the stereo. _The Köln Concert._  Climbing into the tub, she lets the water slowly rise.  The tension’s starting to fade from her chest, though her body twitches occasionally as spurts of anxiety start careening through her with no place to go.

Keith Jarrett plays the piano through her bathroom, and she lets her body float.  Lets the world slip away so she can no longer feel it clinging to her skin.  Her flesh heats.  Her lungs expand.  Clonazepam takes time to work, but the synergistic effect with the alcohol leaves her with a buzzed and slightly unhealthy feeling she doesn’t care for in the least.  Still.  The swirling anxiousness is slipping away.

Chords and water fight back ancient foes.  She toes off the tap when the bath is full.  When she can lay there and float.  Let her hair wrap around her and tangle messily in the water.  It floats far better than she does, and she watches it blandly.  Feels how it drags her down.  

If Thomas or James were here, they’d wash her hair for her.  But she does it herself.  Running through a routine that she’s run through time and time again.  When the world is a disaster, and you can’t change anything, sometimes the only thing you _can_ do is fix yourself.

She washes her hair.  She scrubs under her nails.  She takes a cloth and she rubs at her skin with warm water and lavender soap.  Miranda breathes deep, and hugs herself.  Drawing her knees to her chest and resting her cheek against her joints.  

The steam wraps around her body, washing away her sins and helping the buzz in her mind.  

When she’s done, she stands slowly.  Carefully.  She unplugs the drain and reaches for a warm robe that’s always kept nearby.  It’s soft and fluffy.  Trapping in the heat from the bath and letting her sink within the folds.

Feeling the need for more, Miranda slips from her room and walks down to the kitchen.  She’s not entirely surprised to find Madi already there.  Making the exact pot of tea that Miranda wanted so badly.  It’s almost done, and Madi glances at her from the corner of her eye.  

They look at each other, and then they embrace.

Madi’s arms wrap around Miranda’s.  Miranda pulls Madi close to her chest.  She ducks her head.  Presses her face against the side of Madi’s hijab.  It feels so _good_ to be held in this moment, and Miranda _knows_ that Madi feels the same.  

They pull away only when the kettle starts to whistle.  Madi taking her hand as she leads her toward the stove.  She moves the kettle over and she turns of the burner.  Fetches two mugs and sets to making them some chamomile tea.  “There’s honey in the—” Madi’s already got it.

There’s no need to explain.  No need for words.  Madi understands, and Miranda is so very grateful that she does.  Standing there together, side by side, Miranda is endlessly grateful that she’s not alone right now.  “What can I do?” Madi asks.

She doesn’t say she’s grateful for Miranda’s help.  Doesn’t thank her again for John.  Doesn’t bring them back to moments that have long since lost their relevance or necessity in this moment.  Just,  _what can I do?_

“Can you help me cut my hair?” Miranda asks her in return.  

Someone else might have questioned if it’s really what Miranda wants.  If it’s exactly what Miranda needs right now.  They might have offered to do it in the morning.  Might have suggested she think about it more.  

Madi doesn’t ask if she’s certain, or if she’s sure.  She just finishes her tea.  Lets Miranda finish hers.  Then she follows Miranda to the en suite in Miranda’s bedroom.  Sits her down on a stool, and stands behind her with a pair of scissors Miranda keeps for moments like this.

“How short do you want it?” Madi asks her.

Miranda meets her eyes in the mirror.  “Just above my shoulders.”  It’ll take away nearly sixteen inches of hair.  She’s ready to see it go.  Reaching for a tie, she hands it to Madi.  “If it’s in a tail I can donate it.”  

“You’ve done this before?” Madi asks, tying it off expertly.

“Many times,” Madi replies.  She’ll do it again too.  This is her routine, and every repetition feels like a comforting balm leading her to a better future than the one she’s experiencing now.  It shields her like the uniform James puts on before he goes off to fight his war.  Making her stronger.  Giving her strength.   

Madi adjusts the tie so it’s a good ways away from the length Miranda had specified.  Then she brings her scissors forward, and starts to cut.

Nothing has felt as good in a long time.

***

Thomas doesn’t come home that night.

He sends a text at one in the morning, long after Miranda’s hair has been cut and Madi returned to John.  Miranda stays up for the message.  Listens as John has the nightmares she’d suspected he’d have.  Listens as Madi calms him.  He doesn’t fall out of bed this time.  She supposes that’s a plus.  

Thomas’ text reads that he’s fine.  It tells her to go to sleep.  So she does.  She plugs it in, and rolls over.  She curls with James’ pillow beneath her head and Thomas’ in her arms.  James’ scent is long gone from the fabric, but it still feels good beneath her.  It still feels like he’s there.

When her alarm goes off in the morning, she taps it with her finger and rises.  Miranda dresses herself in a good dress and hosiery.  Slips her feet into heels.  Her makeup is tasteful and refined.  Her wedding ring glistens as she shines it to perfection.

She takes another anti-anxiety pill.  Then she looks at herself in the mirror. She feels like a warrior.  Her nail polish is her gun, her eyeshadow is her scope, her blush is her shield against the glare, and her lipstick is the order to fire.  The swift command that cuts through the confusion and chaos and makes it clear that she is in control.  She straightens her back.  Her dress smooth and without a wrinkle in sight, and she descends the stairs like an amazon.  Proud and dignified.

John and Madi are in the kitchen, talking to the staff that have come in for their shifts.  Preparing to turn the house over and get things ready for the day.  John’s too small in the shirt Thomas bought for him.  His sleep pants hang loosely on his hips.  Madi, too, seems small and tiny in the clothes she’s borrowing.  A pair of dark rimmed glasses on her pretty face.  

“Thomas’ car isn’t outside,” John announces.  His blue eyes scan over every inch of Miranda’s body.  Settling on the ends of her hair the longest, before meeting her eyes directly.  “Is he all right?”

“He texted that he was fine,” she replies.  She’s not Thomas’ guardian, and cannot control his actions.  He chose to leave and go wherever he went.  She cannot stop him, and she cannot keep him where she wants him to be simply because she wills it.

The answer isn’t satisfactory to John, though.  She can see how he hunkers down into himself.  Like Thomas’ sudden decision to leave had been his fault all along.  It’s not his fault.  It’s Peter’s and Alfred’s, and anyone else who had been involved in this awful mess.  But John’s a victim just like the rest of them.  

There are already scones on the table, so she takes one and thanks her cook.  Grateful for a taste of normalcy in the morning.  “I have to go to work.”  

“We’ll call if anything changes,” Madi assures her, and Miranda smiles.

“Send me a list of things you’d like from your flat and I’ll see about having them collected.” It’s a grimy and disquieting feeling to know someone’s rifling through your belongings, but needs must.  They can’t go back in any convenient way and at least now they can have clothes that fit them and feel comfortable during their stay.

Getting behind the wheel of her car, Miranda takes a deep breath and prepares herself for her day.  Her new hair touches her shoulders as she pulls out onto the main road.  It feels light and springy.  Alive even.  A centering touch that reminds her that the world continues spinning even when all feels lost.

Her commute is painless.  There aren’t even photographers waiting outside the garage.  She enters her building and catches sight of the photographs that never fail to make her smile.  She greets the girl at reception and starts up the stairs.   _I can do this._

Augustus is waiting for her when she makes it to her office.  He stands and collects some papers to give her.  “Anne Bonny called.  She requested an immediate appointment with you today at eleven.”

The papers are being pushed into her hands.  Glancing down, Miranda catches sight of a lot of black lines.  Redacted and confidential then.  “What about?”

“She said it had to do with something called the Witch.  Said you’d know what it was about and would want to take the meeting no matter what else you had scheduled.”  Anne was right.  

Bless her.  She got permission to set up the call.  “When and where?” Miranda asks, already feeling like today’s going to take a turn for the better.  

“I’ve uploaded the address onto your personal calendar, and,” he reaches for something on the printer, handing it to her with pride.  “I mapquested it just in case.”  She’s got a GPS in her car, but the backup is appreciated.

Glancing at the location, Miranda doesn’t have much time to settle her things into her office and then collect what she needs.  It’s an hour drive to get there, and she’s going to want to arrive early.  “I took the liberty of collecting your available files on the current MSHTU case load,” Augustus continues.  He holds up several folders.  All of them rubber banded together.

“Augustus Featherstone, you’re a godsend.”

He beams with pride.  “Thank you ma’am.  Anything else you need?”

A cup of coffee.  She can get that on the way.  Shaking her head, she shuffles the things in her arms and double checks there’s nothing else she needs.  She snatches a fresh pad and some extra pens from her desk, and then turns on her heel.  Heading back out the way she came.

Meetings on such short notice are rare, but they do happen.  Anne usually prefers to give notice, but there’s only so much notice someone can get at times.  Particularly in their circumstances.  Driving across town and managing the early morning traffic, Miranda makes decent time getting to a small suburban office building in Reading.

It’s innocuous and filled with storefronts.  The room Augustus’ notes tell her to go to are in the back of a clothing store.  Jo’s _Witch_ can enter without looking suspicious, and they can have their meeting face to face.  It’s more than Miranda could have ever hoped for.

They’re waiting for Miranda when she arrives.  

Miranda’s early, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  She opens the door to their conference room, and her eyes immediately fall on Louise Hudson.  She’s got red hair.  Died, by the looks of it.  She’s slender with a narrow waist and too thin wrists.  The dress she wears is too tight on her body.  

Anne’s standing behind her.  “We have two hours,” Anne says.  Miranda nods, and closes the door.  She locks it for good measure.  Walks to sit across from the Witch and deposits all her documents on the table set up between them.  

“Normally when someone is in a witness protection scheme, I’m not allowed to see their face.”  It’s for their own protection, and hers as well.  If anyone should suspect that she knows where Louise Hudson is, she could be in danger.  

“I wanted you to see my face.”  Her voice is lower than Miranda suspected.  With her frail looking body, Miranda had imagined something close to a Kristin Chenoweth squeak.  Instead, she’s met with a smooth alto.  A clarinet almost.  Or a viola.

“Why?” The trouble with showing an artist your face is they tend to remember it.  It stays with them.  It haunts them. Miranda will always remember Louise Hudson’s face.  She’ll see it when she looks at Jo, she’ll see it when she talks to Max about the other girls that they were working with aside from Jo.  She’ll see it when she testifies at trial in order to put every single person who dared to kidnap and touch those girls is put away for a very long time.

“Because you’re right,” the Witch murmurs.  Her fingers wind themselves together.  Clasping at each other like wet spaghetti.  Tangled and knotted and useless.  “It is my fault.”

“Yes,” Miranda agrees.  “It is.”

She’s not here to hold Louise’ hand.  She’s not here to tell her that she did the best she could.  Louise is not her client, nor does Miranda feel particularly inclined to invite her in as a client.  The only reason Miranda cares to know about Louise Hudson, is because Miranda cares deeply for Jo and the others.  So when Louise’ face twists with misery and pain, Miranda feels _nothing_.

Anger doesn’t rise within her.  Irritation doesn’t start to burn within her veins.  She looks at Louise and feels nothing at all.  Louise is a formless individual who has not earned Miranda’s emotional attachment.  There is no attachment to be given when you’re prosecuting someone.  They’ve committed horrible crimes, and Miranda doesn’t need to concern herself with the life Louise Hudson _could_ have lived.  She can only concern herself with the one she _did_ live.

And the life Louise Hudson lived was one that severely harmed Miranda’s clients.  Therefore, “I have questions,” Miranda states firmly.  “Anne will have explained that as you are within a witness protection scheme and have been given immunity for your cooperation in this matter that nothing you say now will be used against you in court.”  Louise nods hesitantly.  

Her noodle fingers tighten even more.  Miranda wonders if they’ll break apart into pieces.  Torn by the tension that so clearly exists in Louise’ frame.  “I want to help, if I can.”  Her earnestness might even be commendable if Miranda could bring herself to care.

Instead, she takes out her pad and she starts to write.  “What was your involvement with the girls?” She wants to know everything.

Louise Hudson gives her everything, and more.

The man who ran their unique cell was huge tower of an individual named Albinus.  He had outposts throughout Europe, enabling the transfer and movement of _prizes_ to wherever they’d be set up for auction.  The young ones, particularly the virgins, were better off in the beginning as they would lose value if raped prior to a sale.  

The older ones weren’t as lucky.  “I gave a medical examination to each prize,” Louise informs.  Her voice is clinical.  Detached.  Miranda once prosecuted a teenager who strangled his seven year old brother because he made too much noise.  He’d sat before her on the witness stand and described his hands around the boy’s throat in such detail Miranda hardly needed to make a case against him.  Louise sounds like that now.  As if it were a normal topic of discussion.  As if the _prize_ wasn’t a vulnerable person kidnapped from the life they knew.

“You gave this examination to Jo Ryan?” Miranda asks.

“Yes.  A thorough examination is needed regularly to ensure that the prize remains intact throughout the transfer period.”

Miranda meets Louise’ eyes.  “What does a thorough examination entail?”

“A gynecological examination and inspection of the anus to ensure no ripping or tearing from object insertion.  Jo Ryan was not raped.”

“Not by them.”  It’s petty, and cruel, and Miranda feels no shame in saying it.

Finally, she makes Louise Hudson flinch.  Look away.  Her hands squeeze down tighter.  Little noodles turning bleach white.  Anne says Miranda’s name, but Miranda keeps her gaze locked on Jo’s Witch.  “And the other girls?”

This is more complicated.  Louise describes individual customers.  Clients.  People that prepaid for services and expected them to be followed.  Drugs were used to hook the prizes and keep them docile.  Rooms were provided and the prizes were kept there for the clients to use.  Louise would be responsible for checking for undue damage and tending to any and all wounds.

There are phrases that the guards would use to let the prizes know what they should be doing.  Routines that Miranda is already vaguely aware of, that Louise explains in careful detail.  Dates and times and exchanges are plotted down.  Descriptions of frequent customers and Albinus himself who personally inspected each prize before assigning them to their positions.

Miranda’s not interested in hunting partners down or proving a crime at the moment.  Right now, her concern is gathering information for anything that the aides and psychologists can use to assist her clients as they try to reintegrate back into the world.  

She writes constantly.  She takes dictation and scrawls in shorthand.  She stars things of particular importance, uses nicknames to keep track of persons of interest.  Occasionally Miranda asks Louise to repeat something or clarify a comment, but in general she presses forward uninterrupting.  Wanting only to get as much information down as possible in the limited time they have left.

“Anne says that you’re the best at what you do,” Louise concludes once their time has started to reach its end and Miranda thinks she’s got enough to start briefing her caseworkers on.  “That you’ll fight for them.  Do everything you can to see that they recover from this.”

“There’s only so much anyone can do in any circumstance.  I’m not the best at anything except for knowing when I’m not the best, and finding that person if I can.”

“That’s a neutral answer.”

“It’s the only answer that’s true.” For a moment, Miranda thinks she’s gained Louise’s respect.  She doesn’t care if she did.  She has no need for the respect of a woman who did the things she did.  No matter her reasons.  

Louise drops her hands into her lap.  Her dress tightens around her as she dutifully draws in air.  Like a preprogrammed robot sentenced to feign at being human.  “Do you have children?” Louise asks.

Someday, the world will not need proof of a family tree to justify the existence of a moral standard.  “No.”  She starts getting her things in order.  Capping her pen with a click.  

“When Cardoza approached me, and I began my work for Albinus, my thoughts were of my children.”

“Of course they were.” Miranda’s finished stacking her folders and papers.  Louise’s lips part.  She’s expecting understanding.  Comfort.  Miranda has no interest in providing either.  “When wars are waged, it’s for our children.  So they can live in a better world.  When bombs are set off, it’s for our children.  So they can find a new life.  When we go to work, it’s for our children.  So we can provide.  It’s _always_ for our children.  And other children don’t matter.  If they’re brown, or black, or asian, or white, or Muslim, or Jewish, or Romani, it doesn’t matter.  Because they’re not _our_ children.  So it’s okay.”

“I never said it was okay,” Louise hastens to tell her.

“You put a speculum in a kidnapped nine year old child to see if she was a high value _prize_ you could sell at an auction.  Would you have done that to your own child?”

“Miranda,” Anne cuts in, but Louise is shaking her head.  Holding a hand out to stop Anne from interfering.  There are tears in her eyes.  Miranda doesn’t care.

Louise swallows thickly.  “If I went to the police the moment Cardoza spoke to me, I could have escaped.  I could have taken my children and we could have been someplace far away.  But Cardoza would have continued.  Albinus would have continued.  It would have ended _nothing._ ”

There’s a fire in Louise Hudson.  Strength, Miranda can grudgingly see.  “If I didn’t inspect Jo, someone else would have.  And they might have broken her hymen.  They might have declared that she wasn’t a virgin because of it.  She might be raped right now.”  Miranda doesn’t move.  Doesn’t flinch.  Just keeps listening.  It’s her job to listen.  No matter how distasteful the tale.  “I collected the information.  I reported what I had to the police and the MSHTU.  All those men...all those guards, Cardoza, and Albinus himself—they’re in custody because of me.  Sometimes somebody has to do a bad thing in order to get the right result.  Sometimes it’s the only way to make it work.”

Miranda’s watch marks the top of the hour, and they need to leave now.  Louise has to disappear back into the scheme, and Miranda doesn’t doubt she will never see her again.  She grinds her teeth together. “Two hundred and seventy-six prizes went by before you came forward with that information.”

Louise starts to stand.  She smoothes her dress out.  She runs a hand over her dyed hair.  “No one would believe me unless I had enough information to prove their guilt.”  It’s an echo of Miranda’s own rules with prosecuting.  One that hurts to hear parroted back at her.  “I did everything I could to make sure those _people_ were treated as humanely as possible, but if I hadn’t done what I did there would be even more people treated to that same fate.  I needed to have the information I could have.  I needed to put it all in order so that when the trap was sprung, there was nothing anyone could do but watch the pieces fall into place.  And watch as every horrible person involved in this matter was arrested at exactly the right time.  They can’t get away with this.”

She wants to say more, but Anne’s coughing and gesturing toward the door.  She needs to go.  “I kept track of all of those people,” Louise murmurs just before she leaves.  “I gave their locations to MSHTU.  Some will have disappeared deep into the system, but for many others...I believe they’ll be found.  It was the least I could do.  I know I committed a crime, Mrs—Lady? Hamilton, but sometimes you have to commit a crime to make sure the right people are punished in the end. ”

She leaves without a proper goodbye.  Miranda had none to give her in the first place.  She’s still not entirely sure how she feels.  Logos, Pathos, and Ethos war with each other within her, and she cannot claim a victor just yet.  Instead, she waits a few minutes, and then leaves the way she came.  Heading to her car and preparing to head home.

Her mobile jingles with a message just as she sits behind the wheel.   _I’m fine._  Thomas texted again.  She runs her finger over the pixelated screen.  As if she could stroke his hand from here.

She lowers her thumb to the keyboard, and texts back just two words.   _Me too._  Then she starts her car, and starts driving back to her office.  She has work to do.


	16. Chapter 16

At a respectable 110WPM, Miranda types up her notes from her conversation with Louise.  She’ll keep her originals with the case file, but scans them for safe keeping and types them up with additional thoughts and explanations herself.  She was the only one who could extrapolate more information from her own shorthand.  So it's her responsibility to do this.

Thomas texts her around four in the afternoon.   _Home or Office?_ And she texts back _Office._ She’s not sure when she’ll be going home.  Not until she’s finished this at least.  

Louise Hudson had not been shy in providing details.  But it’s her final words that circle around Miranda’s brain unbidden.  Just as she’s certain Louise knew they would.  By the time her husband makes it past the front desk and reaches her office, she’s gotten through the initial write up and started on her analysis.  Louise haunting her the whole while.

He’s brought sushi with him, and at some point he’s changed his clothes.  A brand new shirt and suit jacket.  His hair’s been neatly combed.  His skin fresh and clean.  She tries not to imagine how any of that came about.  Just saves her work and moves her documents to the side.  Standing slowly so she can embrace him.  He sets the food down and brings his hands to cup her face.  Kissing her brow and her lips before encircling her with his arms and drawing her to his chest.

“I like your hair,” he tells her softly.

His clothes smell like they’ve come straight from the box.  She burrows her nose closer to him until she can pick up the faintest whiff of his natural scent.  Except it’s not what she’d been expecting.  It’s James’ deodorant instead.  She sighs.  Pulls away.  He has the good grace to look rather sheepish about it all, but she doesn’t have it in her to tease.  “How do you feel?” she asks.

When she’d held him, Miranda had let her hands trace along his back.  As if she’d find bandages over fresh wounds.  Some habits die hard.  They know each other too well.  “Conflicted,” he admits.

They sit across from each other.  Stealing sushi from each other’s take out tins and sharing pieces of ginger between each bite.  “You went back,” Miranda says once they’ve settled into a basic system.  She feels like she’s a teenager again.  Trying to come to terms with Thomas’ incredible lack of bodily care.  

“You were right and wrong,” Thomas replies without really answering.  He pops an avocado roll into his mouth.  Chewing briefly before swallowing.  “Right in that my father did have leverage over Peter.  But he doesn’t give a damn about Woodes Rogers, and it doesn’t help him to get Rogers elected.  Only in an abstract sense. A Liberal Democrat MP is perhaps of _slightly_ more use to him than a Labor Party MP, but hardly by much.  So, wrong only in how that pressure was applied.”

Which only begs the question, “How was it applied?”

“Do you remember when I first took the case, how nobody wanted me to take it?” Thomas asks.  He has a habit of answering questions with questions of his own, and Miranda has a habit of indulging him when he does so.  “It wasn’t a good case.  It was the wrong kind of press.  It had the potential to ruin my career.”

“I remember.”

“My father told me to take it.”  She frowns.  That doesn’t sound right.  She distinctly remembers him lamenting the fact his son had started a...what did he call it?  Oh yes.  A _crusade._ “He told me to take it, that at the very least I could be done with it quickly.  Have John plead guilty and be done with it.  And then, once I started arguing that John was _not guilty_ and began providing evidence as to who as—he withdrew his cavalier support rather quickly.”

Thomas lets her take her time in coming to her own conclusions.  She eats her rolls slowly.  Considers the variables as carefully as she can.  “He told Peter to get Laith to plead.  Pressured him into trying to get _you_ to plead.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you didn’t.”

She keeps eating.  Feels how the fish and rice squish in her mouth.  How they touch her tongue so smooth and temperate.  “Was he involved?”

“Almost certainly.”  And now the trial’s reopened and there’s a very close examination into the specifics of the apparently flawed representation.  Someone will find out, and Thomas’ innocence likely would look far less concrete than it did mere days before.  She swallows another roll.

Peter punched Thomas for arguing about John, but it wasn’t really about John.  It was about what could happen if more attention fell on this trial.  If more fingers started peeling away strips of flesh so eyes could examine the beating heart within.  “If someone commits a crime,” Miranda asks her husband casually, “in order to reveal that someone else committed a bigger crime, do you forgive the first to condemn the second?”

‘“When is a monster not a monster?”’ Thomas intones, quoting in a lyrical way.  His voice rising and falling with each syllable.  ‘“Oh,”’ he smiles sadly.  “‘When you love it.”’

“Where’s that from?”

“Caitlyn Siehl’s entry in _Literary Sexts: A Collection of Short & Sexy Love Poems,” _he replies.  He doesn’t even bother to look abashed.  Miranda’s certain it’s in their library.  She’ll have to look at it when she gets home.  “There are two volumes and—” she laughs, and it cuts him off.  He smiles at her.  Charming and sweet.  “What?”

Shaking her head, she reaches across the desk to place her palm on his hand.  “You worried me last night.”

“I know.”  He rotates his wrist and holds her hand.  His smile doesn’t fade.  If anything it simply gains meaning.  “Ask.”

There’s no need to ask.  She can tell by looking at him.  But this is what they do.  She squeezes his palm.  “Did he hurt you?”  Not _touch_ , because there are countless ways to hurt someone.  Countless ways that the pain can seep into the mind and leave irreparable damage.  Alfred Hamilton doesn’t need to touch his son to break him.  He merely needs to speak.  

“No.  He wasn’t home.” Huffing a little, Thomas adjusts his seat.  “Mother was.  We had a long talk about the state of the Barlow estate and how you haven’t done your proper duty in managing it.  Apparently there are vines attacking the boundaries between the property lines.”

The news is delivered so incredibly taciturn that Miranda finishes dinner with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Another laugh rattling through her not long after.  “How’s her garden doing?” she asks blandly, and Thomas joins her in good humor.  Giggling like they’re children again.  “She can _never_ avoid talking about the garden.”

“In the story of your life, my sweet, someone is going to write about all of your great accomplishments.  They’ll talk about the hundreds of people you saved, the communities you provided clean water to, the cultures you worked to preserve.  They’ll discuss your paintings and your pictures and argue over which is the most sublime.  And when they finally ask your woefully boring and easily forgotten house-husband what he thinks your greatest achievement is, I’ll have to look them in the eye and spoil your image by telling them exactly what you did to that garden.”

The devil himself would be proud of what she did to Belinda Hamilton’s fucking garden.  For years that woman knelt in the dirt and tended to it with her own hands.  Celebrating her tomatoes and her lettuce.  Proudly displaying her flowers and her various horticulture accomplishments. And for years she cared more about the state of her vegetables than her own child.  

It took one class in year twelve and ten pounds at the market to destroy all of Belinda’s hard work.  If there’s one thing that will destroy any garden, it’s a sprig of mint.  And Miranda planted it everywhere she could.  “She deserved it.”  It’s been over twenty years since her first midnight planting, and the grounds of the Hamilton estate have been utterly desecrated by endless battalions of militant mint.  Marching over every bit of grass exactly as all weeds should.  Choking the life from Belinda Hamilton’s precious vegetables and stealing the vibrancy from her flowers.

“However do you keep it up, though?” Thomas asks.  “I know she burns the damn thing to the ground every year in an attempt to set it back to order.”

“Yes well, she’s always so prompt about informing you that she’s burned it, so I always know when to make a trip, don’t I?”

It’s so good to hear Thomas laugh.  It’s so good to see him double over.  Chortling hard enough that he coughs into his hands.  She joins him in his delight, and soon they’re both laughing so hard there are tears in their eyes.  Miranda wipes them away, feeling light and alive and well.  “So tell me, how do you know your father was involved if he wasn’t there and you don’t talk to him?  I doubt your mother told you.”

And her gorgeous, fantastic, utterly _brilliant_ husband reaches into his pocket and pulls out a USB drive.  “No, but my mother said I could take whatever files I wanted off the computer once I told her I was looking for some old work that I thought was saved on it.  And yes, counsellor.  I do have that in writing...well in a manner of speaking.”

He holds up his mobile and she wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all.  John had caught Peter the same exact way and here’s Thomas.  His mother’s permission doesn’t incriminate her of anything, but it does provide a basis for proving he hadn’t coerced or stolen the information without permission.  “How in the world did you…”

“She doesn’t know a thing about computers and never bothered to ask what I wanted,” Thomas shrugs.  “Father will be furious, but that’s only if she remembers to tell him what she did.  Considering she was starting on her next martini, I doubt she will.  I got the hard drive, thumbed through some of Father’s personal files while I was waiting for the transfer to take place, and after I left I spent the majority of last night and today looking through all of the records I acquired.  Think Jack’ll find it interesting?”

“I think a lot of people will find that interesting,” Miranda says.  Staring at the flash drive numbly.  She holds out her hand.  “I’m making a copy.”

She intends to make several.  Loading it up on her computer, she starts moving files over, listening as her husband starts to explain.  “Peter made a financial arrangement with my father when he was eighteen.  He ceded over land, stocks, and position within his family’s company on the condition that Father ensured I remained unharmed until I left home.  Essentially he’d agreed to sign over nearly fifty percent of all the components within his trust.”

 _“Fifty percent?”_ That’s absurd.  And Thomas knows it.  He smiles bitterly.

“Peter never was very smart when it came to his finances, and at eighteen he’d likely not considered the consequences as extensively as he should have.”  It’s a cruel thing to say about someone who apparently traded their future to ensure that Thomas actually survived to adulthood.  Then again, Thomas had never wanted to return to that house.  Had finally been ready to run away and leave forever, and Peter had begged him to go back.  Promising him that it would be all right.  Alfred never did hit Thomas again, as far as Miranda knew, but by that point he hardly had to.

“Say what you will about my father, he understands his business prospects and portfolio very well.  According to his records, he didn’t follow up in regards to finalizing the estate transfer until after Abigail was born.”

Of course he didn’t.  After all those years, it could easily have been something Peter had hoped would never be brought back into the light.  A promise made as a child in an attempt to do the right thing.  “After she was, Father applied pressure, intending to remove the part of the estate that Peter had promised him.  It would have ruined Abigail’s future prospects and put them into a financial crises.  From there it’s just a matter of leverage.  Peter bought back pieces of his estate in exchange for favors.”

“Favors like ensuring two innocent men received a life sentence?”

Thomas shrugs one shoulder.  Eyes flicking to her screen as the first copy is made.  She swaps out for a fresh USB drive and puts the first copy in her office safe.  “Care to take a guess as to what part of Peter’s reduced estate he still retained control over?”

Not particularly.  Miranda never cared much to keep track of what her peers did with their portfolios.  Growing up with countless lords and ladies, attending dinner parties, and listening to the girls at Roedean talking about the boys at Eton and imagining who they might marry, there was no end to the long complicated tangle of inherited wealth her friends at school maintained.  

Frankly.  She didn’t care, and offering a guess as to what Peter had been foolish enough to think he’d need to retain after his public school education would be a laughable attempt at best.  Seeming to realize she had no interest in responding, Thomas answers his own question.  “Investments in military industry.”

Her fingers twitched.  Her mouth thinned into a tight line.  “An industry that was positively affected after the bomb went off in Northwood.”

Thomas snaps his fingers, turning his hand so his index finger points right at her.  “Spot on.”  Lowering his voice to match his father’s peculiar sneer, he continues,  “ _Get Muldoon to plead guilty, convince Thomas to do the same for Silver, and I’ll give you back a portion of your estate_ and _you’ll have the boon from the weapons trade as well._ ”

“And this,” Miranda holds up the second USB as soon as it’s done copying,  “Can prove it?”  

“It certainly has enough information to provide a bit of doubt.” It’s a dangerous thing then.  A very dangerous thing.  One that needs to be handled with the utmost care.

Miranda bites her lip.  She has no love for Alfred Hamilton, but _Peter?_  He’d been in a position where he had his daughter’s future to think about.  After making a choice he thought could save Thomas.  “Why did he do it, all those years ago?  Why make such a stand?  Why sign away so much just for you?”

“I imagine he didn’t do it alone.  It took a few days, if you’ll recall.  I’m sure he needed to discuss making such a choice with someone else involved in the situation.” At this, Thomas’ eyes dart to the side.  Something keenly looking like embarrassment crosses his features.  But any icy grip started to twist its way around Miranda’s heart.  She feels vaguely sick.

“You fucked his mother in the church,” she says.  Breathless.  Thomas tilts his head back her direction.  “He fucking _sold you—”_

 _“—Miranda.”_ Thomas’ hand reaches across the desk for her and she grabs at it.  Fingers tight around his wrist.  “I slept with a lot of people back then.  I consented to every single thing I did, and whether they had alternate motivations or not, it doesn’t matter.  You know as well as I, that I wanted what I wanted and I took what I took, and it’s not exactly like I was a virgin even back then.  I imagine Lady Ashe worked the specifics out with Father.  Managed the terms well.  Father didn’t press for the estate, and allowed Peter a chance to earn it back, so everyone got what they wanted.”

“Your father got favors from the other side of the aisle, Peter got to feel righteous about you, his mother got to fuck you indiscriminately, and you were sexually abused by your friend’s mother instead of physically abused by your father.”

“And Mother’s garden never looked better.”  The joke falls flat.  “I wasn’t sexually abused by Lady Ashe.” He sighs.  “Don’t phrase it like that.”

It’s rather hard _not_ to phrase it like that.  Miranda squeezes his wrist harder, and he doesn’t pull away.  Just waits her out.  “You were fifteen.”

He actually rolls his eyes.  Disinterested in her description.  “The age of consent is sixteen, Miranda.  Did I sexually abuse _you_ when we first had sex?”

“ _We_ were fifteen.  She was what, forty-six?  There’s a bloody difference, Thomas, don’t be obtuse.”  Her mobile bings.  He gently pulls at his wrist and tilts his head toward it until she glowers and statches it up.

It’s Madi.   _You need to come home right now._

She shows it to Thomas, and his expression sours even more than it had moments before.  “Come on, we can discuss this in more detail later,” he says stiffly as he stands up.  

“Thomas—”

“—I will continue this conversation to your heart’s content after we make sure Madi and John are all right, yes?”  She grits her teeth.  He snatches up her car keys and hands them to her.  “You can drive.”  

“I don’t want to drive, I want to talk to you about—”

“—I know you do.”  Patience.  Endless patience.  It’s like he’d been built to endure and persevere and nothing else.  Miranda half thinks that he’s like one of the martyred saints.  Constantly taking blow after blow, but still standing proudly the next day.  “But don’t pretend that you didn’t know that I fucked Lady Ashe back then, or countless other men and women and people our own age.  You knew, I knew, and the fact that she had alternative motives for wanting to fuck me _doesn’t change_ the narrative enough to be hostile about it now.”

Miranda disagrees.  Strongly.  “Your father pimped you out to her.” Thomas’ cheek twitches.  

“Maybe.  But right now, that’s not important.   _Madi_ is.  Do you want to drive or not?”  He took his own car here, but he’s still offering to ride with her.  In a way, she supposes that’s fine.  That’s justifiable.

Still, even as she shuts everything down for the evening and follows her husband toward the door, anger and rage fight within her.  There’s an inherent desire, when put in an enclosed space to talk about all the things that are wrong.  Just because the other person cannot escape.  But when Miranda sits behind the wheel of her car, she finds no desire to talk about any of it at all.  Thomas’ hand grips the door handle, and his feet are planted firmly on the floor boards, and all she can think about is how much she doesn’t want to start this conversation again.  Because she needs to be ready to deal with what’s happening at home, and cannot split her attention between the two.

Thomas knows it too.  He’s not stupid.  If anything, he’s too frustratingly smart.  So she speeds home, because it’s vindictive and it makes her feel better.  His penchant for self destruction grating on her abused nerves, and feeding into her rather entitled feelings of rage.  To his credit, though, he doesn’t say anything more on the topic.  Just fumbles awkwardly with Miranda’s mobile.  Trying to text Madi to get more information.  Madi hasn’t responded.  He calls her, but there’s no answer.  

Considering Thomas’ actions of late, Miranda can’t help it as anxiety starts to creep in.  

Doubt.

Why wouldn’t she answer?  Is it John?  Someone else?  Alfred?  She half hopes it’ll be Peter.  So she can give him a punch of her own.  So she can yell at him that his version of help had been unwanted and narrowly short sighted.  How _dare_ he?  

 _He probably doesn’t even know,_ Miranda thinks furiously.  Which is, somehow worse.  That he’d been so foolish to think his mother would have let such a deal go by without considering what _her_ benefits had been in all of this.

Miranda’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel.  She tries to steady her breathing.  Her muscles tense.  Her back tightens.  The warm air from the heating vents tickles the hair on her arms.  Sending chills across her limbs.  

By the time she pulls up to the house, she’s half expecting a patrol car out front.  Sirens.  Lights.  There's nothing but the dim lighting of a quiet street.  Thomas flies out of the car and is up the steps before she’s got the key out of the ignition.  She follows him as quickly as she can.  She can hear raised voices, but it’s not the screaming she’d been expecting.

Not more pain or agony.

It’s...laughter?

Miranda jogs up the steps and nearly crashes into her husband.  He’s frozen in the entrance.  Caught staring into their foyer.  John and Madi are talking at once.  Madi explaining that John stole her phone and wouldn’t give it back.  How he has impressive maneuverability for a man with one leg.  

Honestly, their words and explanations are entirely meaningless, because James is standing next to them.  In full uniform, but smiling bright. Miranda doesn’t know what to say.  Her mind feels like a computer running through an endless trail of code.  Misfiring and being sent back to the beginning to rerun the process each time she came to a conclusion.

Thomas moves first.

He ignores Madi and John.  Ignores how they dutifully step to the side.  One arm wraps around James’ shoulders, the other behind his back. He pulls James to his chest and James hugs him fiercely.  They rock a touch in each other’s arms.  Pulling back only briefly before Thomas’ hands can cup James’ face.  Kissing him just as he kissed Miranda only a few hours ago.  

They embrace again, James’ eyes peeking over Thomas’s shoulder.  He reaches one hand out to her and she goes.  She goes to him immediately.  Thomas shifting to allow her the chance to melt into James' hold.  She crashes against James’ chest.  Slots right there like she's always meant to be _right there._ He kisses her hair.  Her cheek.  Her lips.

He’s got one arm still wrapped around Thomas’ waist, and she doesn’t care.  She often does the same.  Holding him to her just so she knows he’s there and can touch him.  James isn’t the type to shed tears of joy, but she is.  She feels her eyes burning, and she can’t stop hugging him.  Can’t release him.  Can’t remove her arms from around his neck.  

She burrows her nose against his throat, and just breathes him in.  Salt and grime and Old Spice deodorant.  James kisses her hair.  She adjusts again so he can kiss her lips.  Kiss her lips and her cheeks.  Her brow.  Her eyes.  He kisses every bit of skin on her face, and she smiles and starts to cry in earnest.  She doesn’t ever want to let him go.

He knows it too.

He takes her hand and pulls her after him.  They leave John and Madi to their own devices.  It’s a tad inappropriate but she doesn’t care and neither does anyone else in this house.  Thomas in one hand, Miranda in the other, James pulls them away.  Miranda thinks she can even hear John teasing them, _have a good time now!_ And Madi swatting him in response.  She doesn’t _care._

She clings to James the whole way back to their room.  Fingers scrambling to retain their hold on James’.  He pulls them straight to the boudoir and sets them down on the chaise.  Kneels before them, and it’s not nearly close enough.  Thomas and her both slide off the chaise and they end up in a tangle mess of limbs.  Clinging to one another like lifelines.

“You’re here,” Miranda gasps.  Thomas wide eyed and stunned beside her.  “I don’t understand.”  It’s too early for his tour to be done.  It’s too soon for him to be back to them.  A few weeks is far too soon.  She doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“I retired,” James says.  His strong arms are tight around her back.

The words make sense in an abstract way, but Miranda’s brain is struggling to put the pieces together.  This isn’t how retirement works.  She googles it when she’s at her desk sometimes and is trying to distract herself.  She scrolls through message boards and reads anecdotes.  She peruses accounts about how the RN is trying to recall sailors back into service because too many of them are retiring and not enough are filling their ranks.

Miranda has, shamefully, spent far too much time reading blog posts about retirement and life in the Navy.  She knows this isn’t how it works.  That if he were retiring, Hennessey wouldn’t have pulled him off his leave to send him back so suddenly.  “They needed to do an internal review before they let me go,” James tells her.  “I was in Northwood.”  That wasn’t very far at all.  They should have spent the holidays together.  They should have _been there._ “I put in for retirement last year.  They’ve been phasing me out since then.  After the interview we did, there was some discussion of the status of my discharge.  Whether I should be allowed to resign my commission or instead be given a condemnation.”  Miranda pulls back.  Stares at him breathlessly.  But James smiles.  “Hennessey argued for me to be allowed to resign as I’d always intended.  They let me go.  Full approval, all honors in tact.  Pension secure.”

It’s quite possibly the best news she’s heard all year.  She crushes her body more firmly against James’.  Thomas is there as well.  At James’ back and holding them both.  She can feel his arms bracketing around them.  She’s still crying.  Laughing, suddenly, but crying still.  James is here.  With them.  And he’s not leaving.  He’s not going back to war.  He’s not fighting anything any longer.  

“When did you get in?” Thomas asks.  She can’t stop pressing in against James’ chest.  Doesn’t want to escape this tender loving place.  James’ fingers are running through her hair.  Admiring it silently, she knows.  He always likes her shorter hair.  

She thinks, suddenly, that James can do something different with _his_ hair now.  He can grow it out.  No more navy cuts.  No more dress code.  She can pierce his ear like she always threatened, and he’ll probably let her because he always gives in to anything that’ll make her smile.

“A few hours ago,” James replies.  “I wasn’t expecting Madi and John here when I got in.  But they explained what was going on.”

Of course he didn’t _tell_ anyone he was coming back.  He’d wanted it to be a surprise.  In case it didn’t work out.  In case things went wrong.  He wouldn’t have known the exact date the Navy would approve his retirement.  He wouldn’t have been able to keep Thomas and her informed.  Hope is a dangerous thing and he hadn’t wanted to dangle it in front of them in case it didn’t work out.

She swats at tears in her eyes, and he runs this thumb under her lids.  Kisses her cheeks, and smiles at her so soft and sweet.  “It’s going to be all right,” he tells her, and she laughs.  Kisses his lips to feel their lovely touch, and then curls against his body.  He rocks her in his arms.  She was right.  Things are looking up indeed.

Especially because she has the chance to look at Thomas, then back at James, and inform him quite seriously that, “There’s something Thomas needs to tell you.”  Feeling _extremely gratified,_ that James is there to listen to every word their foolish husband has to say. 


	17. Chapter 17

To say that James McGraw is angry is to understate things rather significantly.  James isn’t  _ angry.   _ He’s  _ homicidal.   _ “How old were you?” James asks, shaking with rage.  They’re all seated downstairs.  Thomas had suggested Madi and John be there as well.  As if they could be any damper for James’ ire.  As if he  _ cared  _ that they would see him in all his apoplectic fury.  

“Fifteen,” Thomas replies.  “Barely three months until I was sixteen, honestly I was not a  _ child.” _

James looks at Miranda, looks back at Thomas, and then looks at Madi and John as if to encourage them into action.  Madi seems physically sick.  John is...strangely enough John’s emotions aren't something Miranda thinks she can describe.

It's as if he's caught between shouting in rage and grinning like a demon.  His left hand rubs at his knee, just above his prosthetic.  His face twisted strangely.  Lips caught in a grimacing smile as his nostrils flare.  Uncomfortable, and yet fully ready to argue James’ point if his beloved Lieutenant told him to.

“What exactly prompted your oh so consensual encounter with Lady Ashe then?” James asks shortly.  Miranda winces at the tone.  All her training has taught her this isn’t the way one handles these things.  All her experience with Thomas, however, informs her that he’d much rather argue about it than have quiet discussions in dark corners filled with tears and apologies and words of comfort. 

She half thinks Thomas enjoys the fighting too much. That arguing gives him a chance to put things into perspective on his own terms.  “I took her by the hand, led her into the closet and kissed her soundly on the mouth.”

“And was this before or after she made any kind of advance toward you?” James pressed on.

“Three months, James. I wasn't Jo Ryan—”

“—Kindly do  _ not  _ bring up my cases as a comparison to your experiences,” Miranda cuts in sharply.  Thomas just rolls his eyes.  Rotating his ring as he huffs petulantly.  

“Whether or not there were alternative motives do not discount my own and you know it.  You walked in on us, Miranda, it's hardly as if you were unaware of my position on the matter.”

“You're right,” she allows.  “But tell me, if you had known that your father had traded you to her in order to gain control over your friend, would you have still slept with her?”  Context, is everything.

Thomas scowls unhappily.  “Either way, it happened nearly thirty years ago.  Lady Ashe is dead and buried, and _ Peter  _ is  the reason we're even discussing any of this in the first place.  I rather think there’s no point in continuing down _that_ particular trail of thought.” 

Miranda arches a brow at James.  James snarls audibly, and Thomas actually sulks a bit at their reaction.  Neither Madi nor John seem particularly keen on letting it go either.  “What I’m curious about,” John says slowly, “Is if he had been willing to sell you to turn a profit thirty years ago, what else had be been willing to do?” 

The words themselves are a particular sort.  The kind that send Miranda’s brain spiraling down books and statistics and notations that belong in her office and not in her home life.  There’s a kind of uncomfortable annoyance that builds at the mere thought of her two worlds colliding.  She doesn’t care for the thought of Thomas being  _ sold.  _  Doesn’t care for the thought of money being exchanged and her husband being a part of anything resolving that kind of interaction. 

There’s not enough mint in the world to be justice enough for that.  Regardless of how incredibly uncaring her husband seems to be about the situation.  He knows what she does for a living.  She wonders, faintly, if that’s why it took him so long to come talk to her about it.  He hadn’t known how to discuss it with her without bringing up that precise image.   

She watches Thomas work his jaw.  Shifting his teeth to the left and right.  He twists his ring vigorously.  Cracking his neck as he tries to work out whatever carefully worded answer he’s attempting to craft.  “Just because it had been financially advantageous for my father to make a deal with the Ashe family at that time, doesn’t mean he engaged in, profited by, or benefited from any form of sex trade or human trafficking.” 

_ But I wouldn’t put it past him,  _ Miranda thinks savagely.  In a dark way, she half wishes it  _ were  _ true.  Then she could watch Alfred Hamilton be arrested and sent off to prison and there would be nothing at all he could do to stop it.  No money in the world, no position nor status, no loud voice about his privilege or favor of the Crown.   _ Nothing.  _  She’d have Anne do the honors.  She’d stand witness to that trial.  She’d revel in it.  

Then she thinks of how many victims Alfred could have made over thirty years, and she shakes the thought free.  It’s not something she should be considering.  Not something even remotely appropriate for her to enjoy the idea of.  If Louise Hudson could impact over two hundred people in her short time working for Albinus, Alfred Hamilton could have impacted thousands.  

Miranda’s stomach churns at the thought.  Her heart clenches.  Her insides turn gelatinous as she imagines Thomas at nine.  Lying in a hospital bed just like Jo Ryan. 

Depersonalization.  

That’s one of the first rules with keeping your sanity in her business.  Have emotion and care for your clients, but depersonalize it so you aren’t so closely attached it affects your long term mental health.  

She’s known Thomas her whole life.   _ Nothing  _ is personal like him.  She can't depersonalize herself from a piece of her very soul. 

James’ hand touches her shoulder and it’s a lifeline.  A beacon reminding her to come back to the present.  Her husband isn’t a nine year old boy showing her bruises on his wrist anymore.  He’s here, he’s alive, and he’s more or less mentally sound.  He’s the poster child for an abuse survivor.  At times self destructive, but on the whole a balanced and steady individual with a heart of gold.  But that’s the difference between him and Jo.  He’s survived and moved past it. 

Everything that happened is well and truly in the past, and to that extent, Thomas is right:

There’s nothing that can be said or done about it now. 

James is still infuriated.  Miranda can see that as well as feel it.  His fingers on her shoulder have been a steadying bit of calm, but they’re tense.  Angered.  He wants to do something, and even though he sits there in his white undershirt and jeans, out of his uniform for the very last time, he seems ready to march into battle this very minute.

Shifting on the couch, she leans against him.  Forcing him to move his hand from her left shoulder so his arm wraps around her back.  She settles into the semi embrace.  Feels the heat and tension of his body.  Thomas’ leg is jittery.  He’s watching them with something close to discomfort on his features, and she sighs.  Motioning of him to join them properly.  

He does so at once.  Sitting at her side and kissing her cheek.  With Madi and John across from them, they all make a strange sight.  A group of adults who should be able to work out a plan between them, but apparently are only capable of finding the faults and flaws in their own pasts rather than manage a cohesive picture of their present. 

“So how does this information benefit us?” Madi asks carefully.  At least she’s attempting to move them off topic.  Miranda thinks she can  _ feel  _ Thomas’ relief seeping out of his very pores.  “Your father...he pressured Peter into attempting to make Laith and John plead guilty for the bomb.  And this...data….proves this?” 

“Not in so many words,” Thomas sighs.  “But there’s a trail of transactions and copies of documents that any reasonable jury would find enlightening.  Edward Teach is mentioned a few times.  There are transactions in his bank statements that are of interest.  Gates will certainly consider much of it to be of note.” 

“We’ll have to explain how we got it in the first place,” Miranda muses.  Authorization or not.  Verbal permission or not, there’s no clouding the fact that Thomas had stolen the contents of his father’s hard drive.  It’s theft pure and simple.  Inadmissible in court, and useless to them unless they get a warrant.  They’ll never  _ get  _ a warrant unless they can somehow prove that there’s even a reason for Alfred Hamilton’s computer to be searched. 

“Not unless it’s a matter of public record,” John murmurs. 

“Yes well, believe it or not, I don’t actually have Julian Assange on speed dial,” Thomas replies curtly. 

Miranda feels James shift beneath her shoulder.  He’s adjusting so he can look at Thomas over her head.  “Does it have to be WikiLeaks?” he asks carefully.  “Or can’t a news media outlet publish it under an anonymous source?” 

Like their photos.  Stolen materials that were provided under the guise of a public interest.  Thomas Hamilton’s father being involved in his court case very much put it under that veil.  “It’d be better if it were a total dump,” Madi replies.  “Much like the hacks on Sony and HBO.  Put it all online, and let the Reddit and internet trolls tear it apart and make news out of it themselves.”

“But those leaks can be traced can’t they?” Miranda pipes in.  Madi glances at John, who glances back.  It’s a Long Term Partner Telling Look.  He arches his brows and kind of shrugs and Madi rolls her eyes as if that explained everything. 

Shaking her head, Madi runs a hand over her navy blue hijab.  “I know someone who may be able to help with that.”  She flushes a bit.  Her dark skin growing even darker.  Embarrassed, apparently, by her nefarious connection.  “We met in University,” she hastens to explain.  “He’s an ex-boyfriend really, but I never did find  _ World of Warcraft _ entertaining and so—”

“—World of what?” Thomas cuts in.  Madi actually seems even  _ more  _ flustered now.  She covers her face with her hand and John’s taken to snickering at her side.  An ugly and fiercely amused sound that has Madi swatting at his leg and begging him to  _ stop it, it’s not funny John.  _

“Warcraft,” Miranda replies.  “Honestly Thomas, one would think you never took your nose out of a book.” 

“I’m sure there  _ is _ a book about it,” James sighs, and Miranda just knows Thomas is going to end up with one very soon.  James is incorrigible.  The moment he thinks Thomas might be interested in learning about a topic, he runs out to the shops to buy him one.  They’ll end up like Jack if they’re not careful. 

Thomas still doesn’t seem to understand, though.  “What does  _ World of Warcraft  _ have to do with data dumps?” 

Miranda smiles and pats his hand gently.  Mocking his honest confusion without the slightest bit of shame.  “Nothing, my dear,” she tells him sweet as candy.  “It’s just a game.” 

“A hacking game?” Thomas sounds honestly intrigued by the prospect, and Madi looks like she wishes she never brought it up in the first place. 

She makes an aborting motion with her hand.  Cutting it through the air and shaking her head.  “Honestly, it doesn’t matter.  But Julius is ardently anti-privacy.  He believes that there should be no secrets in government or in business, and I’m relatively certain he’s a member of Anonymous.” 

“That internet group with the Guy Fawkes masks?” James frowns.  Hugging Miranda a little closer as though the very threshold for his moral approval is being lowered as they speak. 

“I’ve seen that mask in his closet, you know,” John faux whispers across the way to him.  He waggles his brows and James flips him off.  Earning him the most boisterous laugh John’s given since his release from Belmarsh.  

It’s good to see John smile.  Good to see him relaxing a bit more.  That the tense and quiet man they’d brought home had started to return into something approaching normal.  She’s missed her friend.  She’s certain Madi’s missed him even more.  

James has always been a good presence for John, though.  Something happens when you go to war with someone.  John had been James’ closest friend when he’d served, and that brotherhood is something Miranda thought Thomas had shared with Peter.  They’d served together too.  And yet Peter betrayed them in the worst way, and continued to do so in new ways that Miranda’s still trying to come to terms with. 

John waves his hand up and down, as though he’s beckoning James closer.  James doesn’t move, but he does tilt his head a bit.  Amused by John’s candor.  “This guy really goes all out.  He’s got a voice recorder and everything.”

“You think he’d be interested in revealing a peer of the realm was involved in the bomb going off at Northwood?” Thomas asks, cutting to the chase. 

Madi and John share a look.  “Honestly,” Madi shrugs.  “I think he’d like nothing better.” 

***

The trouble is, Madi and John are forbidden from seeing any of their contacts or associates until the end of John’s trial.  James had just come off duty, and frankly—he needed to be with Thomas, not chasing ex-boyfriend hackers about London.  So Madi gives Miranda an address and she goes herself. 

“He’s harmless,” Madi told Miranda seriously.  “Just...he won’t be what you’re expecting.” 

Miranda’s expecting an overweight, sweaty man with puffed cheese on his shirt and a hankering for carbonated beverages of any kind. 

So Madi’s right, Julius is not what she’s expecting. 

When she is finally permitted into the man’s flat, a process that took an actual code being read through an intercom, she can’t help but stare.  Julius, is, in a word,  _ gorgeous.   _ His black skin has a golden shine to it as the sun glistens through the window.  His square jaw is shaved so only a slip line of a well maintained goatee remains.  His lips have a lovely bow to them, and his hair is neatly trimmed. 

He’s wearing a tan dress shirt and brown slacks.  His hands are in his pockets and he has a generally laid back posture.  “You’re Miranda Barlow,” he says in an almost amused tone.  He has an accent.  South African, if her ear serves her well.  Still, no one ever calls her by her maiden name, and it’s off putting enough for her to pause in the entrance of his absurdly nice flat. 

She takes in the image again.  The wooden floors.  The white walls with delicate and elegant features.  She half expected him to be a gremlin living in the dark surrounded by computer wires.  Instead, he seems so well put together she’s almost sorry to say that John’s a step down.  

“I am,” she eventually responds.  “Madi Silver—”

“—Scott,” he corrects, and  _ that  _ is almost certainly an irritating habit that Miranda is fast running out of patience for.  She amends her previous thought.  John is very much a step  _ up.  _

_ “Silver,”  _ she insists, because she stood at Madi’s side during her wedding and knows for a  _ fact  _ Madi took John’s last name and is proud of it, “suggested that I speak with you.” 

Julius removes one hand from his pocket and gestures for her to come deeper into his flat.  He leads her to a glass dining room table and they sit down across from each other.  “Why would Miss. Scott send you to me?” Julius asks. 

“Mrs. Silver sent me to you because she thought you might be interested in this.”  She withdraws one of the copies of the USB drive and places it on the table between them.  He looks at it critically.  Lips drawing tight.  Eyes squinting with interest.  

“Your husband is preparing for a trial is he not?” 

“He is not.  He’s preparing for bar standards board hearing.  It’s not a trial.” 

“But John Silver is preparing for a trial, and it is much the same thing, no?”  Julius reaches for the USB drive, but Miranda snatches it back.  He smiles at her.  A pleasant, but kind of paternal smile.  She can practically  _ feel  _ the belittlement crawling off his skin.  “Between the two of you, I would imagine this drive contains information that would impact one, or the other, or both of those...matters.” 

Cleverness always is an attractive quality in a man, but when it comes hand in hand with pride, Miranda doesn’t find herself as amused as she could be.  “The information on this drive far surpasses that, but it’s not information that I can readily provide  _ to  _ a court.” 

“You want me to publish it,” he laughs.  “And I thought you were a lawyer.” 

“I was a barrister.”  She taps the drive on the table.  Forcing him to keep looking at it.  “Criminal prosecutor.” 

“And this does not strike you as something illegal, Ms. Barlow?” 

_ Enough, is enough.  _  Miranda slaps the USB drive down hard.  It clacks loudly against the table, and she leans forward.  “My name is Miranda Hamilton.  I don’t disrespect you by calling you by a name that is not yours, and so you will not disrespect me by doing the same.” 

“You take your married name very seriously for someone who does not hold your vows in the same esteem.” 

She wants to ask what sin Madi has committed in Julius’ eyes that have earned her the same form of maltreatment.  Then again, she doesn’t particularly care.   _ “I take you as my husband, to honor and cherish for the rest of my days.  I swear to love you, to care for you, to listen and to work with you so that any moment of discontent is met with goodness and understanding.  Now, until the day I die.”   _ Even after all this time, her oath is fresh in her mind.  Julius sits back in his chair, brows raised.  Arms crossed.  “We wrote our oaths together.  And to this day I have not broken it.  I love and honor my husband.  I cherish him every day.  I care for him when he is hurt, I listen and work with him when we are in need of compromise.  And James McGraw is neither an object of tension, nor a discredit to our faith in each other.  My husband and I love him, and he loves us.  It doesn’t negate the very clear and firm truth that I am a married woman, Julius.  And my name is Miranda Hamilton.” 

There’s something... _ good  _ about saying it.  Something bolstering that fills her with warmth.  There are few people she’s been able to say it to.  Few people she’s been able to make the declaration to.  But it feels  _ good  _ to say it.  James and Thomas are hers, and they are each others and they all are family.  And if the whole world is going to mock her for her photos and laugh and snicker behind her back, Miranda’s going to be clear. 

She’s not hiding this anymore. 

Julius meets her eyes, and nods his head.  Smile growing even more.  “Mrs. Hamilton,” he finally says.  

It’s not nearly good enough.  Miranda tilts her chin up and peers down her nose at him.   _ “Lady Hamilton,”  _ because it’s true, and she’s feeling contrary. 

It makes him laugh.   _ “Lady Hamilton  _ it is.  What does Madi want me to do?” 

“She wants you to publish the contents of Lord Alfred Hamilton’s hard drive.”  Miranda pushes the USB to him now, and Julius snatches it before she can consider removing it from his grasp once again.  

He holds it up, as if he can see what’s inside just by looking at it.  “Why?” 

“Because on it you’ll find documentation implicating him and Peter Ashe in the Northwood bombing.”  

Julius’ fingers get even tighter, and his expression turns from amused to fierce.  He sits forward in his chair.  “Follow me.” 

They go together.  Into an office that is slightly more in accordance to Miranda’s previous assumptions.  Filled with computer towers that are neatly organized and a monitor that sits on a wide desk.  It takes Julius moments to insert the drive and start pulling files.  He taps through the documents.  Runs through search names.  Looks at papers.  

Miranda had been briefed previously on what specifically she should draw attention to should Julius ask, but she doesn’t need to mention anything.  Instead, she stands beside him and watches as he examines notes and PDF files in turn.  Reviewing each page and then pulling up a command prompt to track information of particular interest. 

Taxation information is always of interest, and Alfred’s records are quite up to date.  Julius finds them with ease.  “He made quite a profit after Northwood, didn’t he?” he asks darkly.  Peering at Miranda from the corner of his eye, he scowls.  “And your beloved husband, he did not know of this?” 

“My  _ beloved _ husband was sold like chattel to feed his father’s ambition.   He fought for his country, for John Silver, and for Laith Muldoon when Peter Ashe tried to see them go down instead of the real perpetrators.” 

“Edward Teach and his band of loyalists?” 

She nods.  “There’s money in keeping a war going,” Miranda says coldly.  Julius’ nostrils flare.  “Can you do something with this?” 

He doesn’t give her the answer she wants to hear.  But there’s something in the way he looks at her very seriously and says, “I’ll let you know,” that gives her hope.  Hope that’s dashed when he tilts his head a touch and squints his eyes.  “Though, tell me.  Why is it that someone who claims to have been innocent met with so many of the people who tried to imprison him?  What was it...six times each?” 

She doesn’t ask him how he knows about John’s dalliances with Teach’s men.  She just tells him he’ll know soon enough.  After all, there’s still going to be a trial.  “That there is,” he agrees.  “That there most certainly is.” 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has been updated as of January 18, 2018. Thank you!

There are endless places around town to get coffee.  Few like Rex’s, though.  Run by an old woman with a shrewd eye for business, it’s always up to date with the most fashionable, yet subtly charming trends.  It has a faux-hipster vibe that Miranda relishes along with the overpriced java that she shamefully partakes in.  It helps that the food is decent and the drink is sublime.  Probably not worth the £8.50 for a large latte and scone, but decent nonetheless.

Madi meets her after her meeting with Julius, and they settle into one of the large leather sofas in the back corner.  “What on earth did you see in the man?” Miranda asks, breathing out a steady stream of air over the top of her drink.  The steam blows across her face.  Rising over her cheeks.  The warmth of the cup heating up her hands and soothing some of the endless chill that comes with winter.

“He was a good student and a fine orator.  My mother was pleased to make his acquaintance.”  Madi sighs.  “There had been talk of us perhaps becoming engaged at one point.  My family did not approve the match in the end.”

“Why?” If things had progressed to that point, it’s obvious that they’d spent a good deal of time together.  Long enough for there to be harsh feelings, it seemed, in regards to Madi’s eventual match.

“He made a comment about Islam that was not well received,” she replies coyly.  

Miranda winces.  Madi’s religion has often caused her to be subject to no shortage of ill mannered behaviors.  Miranda’s witnessed firsthand how her friend could be treated.  With the war in the Middle East and various attacks by militant groups touting their supposed Islamic values, Madi’s struggled in ways Miranda cannot comprehend.

As an outsider to the intricacies of Madi’s culture, Miranda’s never quite known what to say.  Never known how she should react when she hears certain rumors or comments.  Never known what’s her place to say when it comes to the things that matter.  She’s quite good at equivocating when she needs to, and she avoids topics she has no true opinion on, and yet she doesn’t know how to react when Madi casually mentions such things.  

Miranda is a white, wealthy, Christian, _Lady._  Her experiences of life have been so different from Madi’s she’s often left floundering.  For even knowing misogyny, it’s not like Madi.  Even knowing pain, it’s not like Madi.  If Thomas had been arrested, Miranda could have paid his bail.  If Thomas _hadn’t_ paid John’s...John would still be there now.  Sometimes, privilege is hard to see until it’s contrasted right in front of your face.

Religion has never been something she’s needed to justify or defend in any of her past relationships.  Thomas had been her only concern whenever she deigned to find another partner.  For if they couldn’t accept his place in her life, and her place in his, then she couldn’t be with them.  Eventually, there’d simply been no use pretending.  Perhaps it’s the same for Madi.  In the end, she’s Muslim.  And if her partner could not accept that, then it’s for the best they separated for good.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Miranda says anyway.  Carefully taking a sip from her drink.  Madi’s shaking her head though.  Nibbling at her scone.

It’s raining hard outside.  A frosty slush forming on the roads.  Someone opens the door to Rex’s and cold air blows in.  Whooshing past the cups and furniture to rustle the napkins on their table.  Miranda catches one before it flutters away.  “If I had married Julius, I would not have married John.”  She’s smiling now, and it’s something Miranda always loved about Madi.  How she so easily turns her misfortunes into delights.  “They do not get along.”

Miranda cannot imagine that they do.  She rolls her eyes a bit.  Tries to picture John and Julius together, and comes up with John being snarky and purposefully irritating, and Julius being belligerent.  The two have clashing personalities, and Miranda can practically _taste_ the conflict in the air.  

Still, there’s no doubt that John encourages his wife’s faith.  Their wedding had been beautiful.  The ceremony a delight.  Madi’s dress had been ornate and intricate and Miranda still has photos on her phone from when they’d finished exchanging their vows and signing their contract.  Miranda even says as much, and Madi smiles with all the bright joy of a newlywed.  Though it turns wry and amused in moments.  “To be honest, I’m happy it’s over.”

“The planning?” Miranda asks.  It had been the one part of her wedding she’d hated.  The endless planning leading up to the event itself.  The way that she and her husband had to constantly send letters and notes and keep track of everything until both of them had much preferred the idea of eloping over anything else.

They hadn’t, but it’d been a thought.

“Mm…” Madi sips at her tea.  “Muslim women aren’t permitted to marry someone without faith, and even then, there are specifications.  There were many discussions about conversion.  For some time the meetings felt endless.  But eventually my Imam relented.”

“Is that normal?” Miranda cannot help but asking.

“It’s not unheard of.  Things are changing.  I know of one homosexual Muslim couple who has wed.  Mosques are becoming less strict.”

She almost doesn’t want to ask, but as with all intrusive thoughts it’s hard not to speak them once they rest heavy on the tongue.  “Because of the extremism?”   

Madi shrugs.  “Progress isn’t the result of extremism, but rather it’s a continuation of the natural course of things.  The conflict that’s arising is, in many cases the natural result when progressive extremism meets fundamentalist extremism.” They’re not the phrases that Miranda usually hears, but they’re not incorrect.  She can understand the point well enough.  “For many, the change is too abrupt, or the stagnation too endless.  The violence, however, is inexcusable in either case.”  

One of her hands absently smooths out her hijab.  Her fingers run over her brow line, as though confirming it’s all in its natural place.  Once, earlier on in their friendship, Miranda had been walking with Madi when someone had torn the hijab from her head.  The force of it sending her to the ground, yelling out as her hair had been pulled.  She’d gotten whiplash from it, and Miranda had been torn between running after her assailant and helping her friend.

She’d stayed with Madi instead.  Knelt at her side as people stopped and stared.  Whispered amongst themselves.  A few people had done something, a couple of teenagers tried to chase the man responsible.  In the end, the man responsible hadn’t been a conservative zealot as Miranda had suspected, but rather a left wing champion who believed that the hijab was an example of female oppression that needed to be removed.

Miranda remembers watching as Madi tried to adjust the cloth into place.  Her fingers trembling badly the whole while.  The hypocrisy seemed forever lost on her attacker.  He’d complained the whole while that he’d been doing Madi a favor, and Madi had been too rattled to know what to do or say in response.  

“Did you ever ask John to convert?” It seems like such a personal question, and Miranda almost feels squeamish in asking.  But Madi doesn’t seem offended.  She smiles slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.  Her hands cup around the her drink and she breathes in the steam slowly.  

“No.”  Finishing her drink she sets the empty cup to the side and settles more firmly into her seat.  “I have no desire to force my faith on him nor anyone.  He doesn’t expect me to renege on my faith, and he supports me as I practice, and I give him the same respect.  That’s what you do for someone you love.”

It is.  Miranda smiles faintly.  “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for him?” Her friend tilts her head a little as she considers.

“I wouldn’t do anything that compromised who I am.  And you?”  There’s a gleam in Madi’s brown eyes.  A mirroring curiosity that Miranda knows is reflected on her face.  “What would you not do for your husbands?” she says it so casually that Miranda flushes a touch.  

 _Husbands._ She feels a bit like a polygamist.  She doesn’t remember what cultures of the world practice polyandry, but perhaps they should go and find one.  Make it official.  Take James as theirs and never come back to bloody England.

“Nothing,” she says. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.”

But Madi shakes her head. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.  You don’t mean that.”

Miranda thinks a bit more.  Thinks about Thomas as a child, a young man, her husband.  Thanks of James and his kind unwavering support, his fierce and bitter anger, his unflinching desire to harm anyone who would dare to hurt their family.  “No,” Miranda tells her closest friend.  “You’re wrong.”  She meets Madi’s eyes.  “I do.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

John is waiting for them when they get back to the house.  He’s sitting in the library, tapping about on Miranda’s laptop.  “Thomas let me use it,” he explains, tilting the screen so she can see.  She leans over his shoulder to look.  He’s reading news articles about the fallout from the photos.  There are endless blogs and chatrooms open.  With his trial, she’d let herself ignore the tabloids and gossip rags.  

“And you used it for this?” she asks him wryly.  His expression is somber.  Depleted.  He shrugs awkwardly and starts closing out the tabs.  

“It’s not as though I had access to the internet in solitary, and you lot weren’t telling me how bad it got.”  John’s voice has a dark and uncomfortable edge to it.  The kind of sound that usually has James offering to take John out for a run or something to clear his head.  Madi steps in close and rests her hand on her husband’s arm.  He takes it gently and kisses her knuckles.  Closing the laptop and setting it to the side.  “I’m going to get some juice.”  He’s out of the room before Miranda knows what to say.

Madi bites her lip then follows after him.  That’s one confrontation that Miranda doesn’t feel comfortable stepping into right now.  Instead, she goes to find her husband and James.  They’re exactly where they should be, too.  Sprawled out on the bed.  Embracing each other even in sleep.  James’ eyes opening as she steps into the room, one arm tightening along Thomas’ back.

She smiles at him.  Watches as he kisses Thomas’ head and gently wakes him up.  It’s slow going.  Thomas stubbornly staying pressed against James’ body.  Miranda eases herself onto the bed.  Crawling gracefully until she’s beside her husband.  Kissing at the back of his neck, then leaning over his head to kiss James’ lips proper.

It’s so good to have him home.

“How did it go with Julius?” James asks her.  He’s still stroking Thomas’ back, urging him back to awareness, but he keeps his voice quiet and gentle.  Soothing in a slow murmur that only has Thomas pressing his nose against James’ clavicle.  He’s sweet.

“The man’s a disgusting human being, but, he seems good at what he does.”  Leaving the drive with Julius had been a test of faith, but it’s one she’d gladly take.  Especially if it gets them the results they need.  It’s his final words, though, that make her nose crinkle as she bites her lip.  Glancing to the side.  “We need to talk about John.”

“What about John?” Thomas mumbles from somewhere around James’ left nipple.  James kisses his hair again, then shifts.  Dragging Thomas up with him so they’re both leaning against the headboard.

“Aside from the fact that Julius hates him more than any other person on earth, and is likely only doing this because his hacker insistence to destroying all rights for privacy, he met with Teach and his men six times.”  James didn’t so much as blink.  “When did you find out?”

“Thomas told me this afternoon.”

“And?”

“And I spoke to John.”

_“And?”_

Her lover sighs.  Shakes his head.  “It’s complicated.”

Of course it’s complicated.  Anything regarding this mess is complicated. _John’s_ a complication all on his own, and she just sold her father-in-law’s hard drive to a hacker so he can push all the files online.  Very Snowden of them.

 _Complicated_ seems like an understatement at this moment, and James doesn’t seem the least bit repentant about any of it.  Thomas grumbles unhappily, and rolls over to snuggle against Miranda now.  Still belligerently refusing to actually grace them with his brilliant mind, and instead letting them talk over his head without him.

Stretching a bit, James shrugs one shoulder up.  Cracking his back and knuckles as he goes.  “Edward Teach has always been a profiteer.  He likes making money, and he likes violence, and he likes it when the two go together.  For him, continuing the war had meant an influx of both, and he _wanted it_ that way.”

This isn’t new information.  She’d gotten Teach’s profile all but drilled into her head since the moment Thomas realized who was actually responsible for the bomb going off.  “What does that have to do with John’s visitation?”

For a moment, she half suspected that James would lie.  That he would evade.  Dodge the question or change the topic.  Do something other than tell her the truth, because apparently it’s just too much at the moment.  Apparently lies are what they’re living and ruling by, and this is where they’re at now.  This is their new normal.  She tries not to let that feeling persist.  Especially as James closes his eyes, looking very much like he wants to just ignore that anything is happening at all.  “After John’s parents died, he joined the Navy because he didn’t think he had any other options.  He didn’t have money, he didn’t have a home, and he thought it would be the best thing for him.  In some way it was.  It gave him a family, of sorts, that he thought he’d always belong to.  And then Teach betrayed that by attacking it from the inside and blaming John and Laith for his misconduct.”

 _Misconduct_ seems like such a pathetic word compared to the great crux of the issues at hand.  Misconduct is for someone who talks back or leaves their workstation messy.  It’s not the word that should be applied when someone intentionally blows up a military institution to perpetuate racism and fear so a war continues onward for no reason other than profitability.  “He wanted to know why,” James tells Miranda quietly.  

_‘“Why?”’_

“Why blame him.  Why Northwood?  Is the man islamophobic- _why_ is he islamophobic?  John’s world was turned on its axis and he lost faith in the institution he’d prepared to spend his life serving and defending in.  He visited because he needed those answers.”

“He visited all of the guilty parties, Teach, Vane—”

“—Charles Vane and John Silver sailed together for years before the explosion.  Vane _knew_ John and he knew Vincent Collins.  John told me afterwards that Vane pulled him out of the fire.  Left him there for the EMTs to find.  He left soon afterwards, and Vane had no shortage of witnesses giving him an alibi that he _wasn’t_ anywhere near the scene.  But Vane saved John’s life that night, and John’s always grappled with that too.”

The answer didn’t _feel_ right, though.  Miranda can understand the words well enough, but it didn’t seem right that John would visit someone that often just to ask questions.  John’s not a forgiving person.  He’s not someone that Miranda’s ever attributed any kind of excessive generosity or charity to.  He’ll be there for their his friends, certainly, but he’s never gone out of his way for other people he didn’t have a care for.

His work at the community center came from his friendship with Laith, his relationship with Madi.  His need to do something other than sit in his house, staring at the wall, wondering what he’s meant to be doing in his life.

Teach’s crew had been sailors under his command.  He’d been a fierce and calculating master and he’d made fanatics and loyalists out of his team.  They had endless faith in him, and Teach would not be where he was now if it wasn’t for their support.  Likewise, they wouldn’t be in prison for _life_ if it hadn’t been for Teach.

Miranda can’t imagine wanting to visit the people who betrayed and attempted to murder you.  Couldn’t imagine how that must feel, or trying to put it in a narrative that made sense to her.  She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and felt Thomas’ arms wrap tighter around her body.  “You’re worried,” Thomas accuses softly.  He’s slurring slightly, but is clearly far more awake than he had been previously.

“If someone harms you, if someone gives you pain, why would you continue to be around that person?  To go out of your _way_ to be around that person?”  It’s not the first time she asked that question.  It’s not even the first time she hoped Thomas would answer.  But in the past, Thomas _had_ offered responses, and she’d never once believed them.  Never once considered them logical explanations to a problem she saw so clearly.  

Sighing heavily, Thomas sits up.  He rubs at his eyes, draws his knees up so he’s cross legged on the bed.  He’s wearing one of James’ white undershirts.  Too big for his slender body.  James is built like a soldier, muscle thick and heavy.  He’s forty-five years old, and Miranda’s certain that he’s stronger and better built than almost anyone else in their generation.  His clothes swallow Thomas whole, and Thomas looks like a child in them.  Sitting like this all crooked and strange.  

The collar is hanging low around his neck, and it’s tilted over one shoulder somewhat.  Revealing a scar that she knows travels from his shoulder down to his middle back.  A strike with his father’s cane that damn near crippled him as a boy.  The heavy blow knocking a vertebra loose and forcing them to find a chiropractor who could snap him back into place and wouldn’t ask any questions.

Not that they needed to worry _too_ much.  Nobody ever asked any questions.  Nobody wanted to get involved.

“I’ll talk to him,” Thomas mumbles.  Because he knows the answer, and Miranda can’t comprehend the answer.  Can’t understand what would drive him or John to seek out those that wish them ill and try to befriend them.  Try to call them family.

She watches quietly as Thomas crawls off the bed and starts plodding toward the door.  Pajama bottoms slipping low on his hips so his heels caught the bottoms.  He’d trip like that, but he made no attempt to fix it.  Just kept walking onward until he’d left them alone, and that was that.

James watches him go, and Miranda watches him watch.  “Are you all right?” she asks him quietly.  

He smiles at her.   It’s not charming nor sweet.  His eyes droop a little, his brows remain furrowed.  It’s as if the top half of his face and the bottom are warring for the correct expression and coming up with an amalgamation meaning nothing at all.   ‘“I think that you will all agree that we are living in most interesting times.  I never remember myself a time in which our history was so full, in which day by day brought us new objects of interest, and, let me say also, _new objects for anxiety.’”_

It takes her a moment to place the quote.  “Thank you, Joseph Chamberlain.”  

This time his smile turns far more fond.  He nods at her, “Well done,” and takes her hand.  “You keep asking everyone what you can do for them, what can  _ we  _ do for you, Mira?” She struggles not to laugh at the absurd nickname.  It had been the byproduct of a drunken night and he only uses it when he really wants something from her.  

In a way, it’s nice to hear it.  Nice to know that he’s really here with them.  Still, she’s still coming to terms with the fact that he’s here with her and isn’t going anywhere.  He’s not going back to the Navy, there are no more ships for him to lead.  No more wars to fight. 

She’s never known him not involved in a war.  She doesn’t know what she should really say about it.  Maybe she shouldn’t say anything at all.  It took time after Thomas retired.  Even if he had been stationed on the homefront by that point, the fact that he no longer needed to report to the military or dress in uniform had been shocking.  She still half expected him to come home in it sometimes.  

“I just want to spend time with you all, without all of this.”  She waves her hand vaguely, and James hums thoughtfully. 

“We should plan a vacation.” It’s a nice thought.  A peaceful one.  “I’ll take you and Thomas sailing.” James’ voice is a calm thing.  Soothing and gentle.  Closing her eyes, Miranda listens as he tells her about waves lapping gently under a freshly waxed wooden hull.  About the sun and the gulls and the breeze.  Sails unfurling as they lead them off to a lovely destination where no one can bother them at all. 

He gives her hand a light tug and pulls her to him.  Wraps his arms around her body and rocks her just a little.  They settle onto the bed, blanket pulled up over them.  She feels a touch naughty, being in bed in her day clothes, but the thought is banished in moments.  Her eyes close and he whispers a sweet story in her ear about the adventures they can have out on sea.  “It sounds wonderful,” she whispers after a time.  He hums, and keeps telling her more.  

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice, and the quiet thumping of the loving heart beneath her ear. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The past few months have been incredibly difficult for me, and for that reason I apologize for the delay. 
> 
> Further more, this story itself hit a snag where I wrote an ending to the previous chapter that led to a scene that shouldn't have been placed there in the narrative. I have agonized over this chapter ever since, and finally came to the conclusion that I needed to change the previous chapter's ending. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THAT CHAPTER EIGHTEEN'S ENDING HAS BEEN UPDATED.
> 
> If you're worried about Jo, don't worry I'll get back to her. But there was a few moments that needed to come first. 
> 
> Thank you for your understanding. This was for the best interest of the story.

Miranda wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing.  She groans.  Turns on her side and rubs at her eyes.  Blinks drowsily into the night.  Her phone is silent on the nightstand, but across from her, Thomas is fumbling for  _ his.  _  The room is cast in shadows and the fine clothes she’d worn yesterday are now wrinkled and pressed awkwardly against her skin.  She can feel where the seams dig into her flesh.  

Thomas croaks as he speaks into the phone.  “Hello?”  Then he’s sitting upright.  He’s out the door before Miranda can even process that something’s wrong, and less than a breath later, James is after him.  

Kicking awkwardly at her blankets, Miranda flops awkwardly out of the bed.  She stumbles for a moment, regaining her balance before she manages to shake her head loose and swat her hair out of her face.  Then she too is hurrying outside, trying to find her husband. 

He’s in their sitting room.  TV on.  There’s a breaking news report.  The leak happened, and all of the data that Thomas found has been put on the internet.  Photos and diagrams are offset by video cameras and newsman standing outside of Thomas’ childhood home as the word  _ traitor  _ runs across the screen in bright bold letters. 

Thomas still has the phone to his ear, but he’s not saying anything.  He’s just staring at the TV in a numb kind of shock that makes Miranda’s stomach turn queasy.  They knew this would happen.  They expected it, and planned for it.  Yet seeing it in all its technicolor glory is rather nauseating. 

It wasn’t that long ago that it was  _ their  _ lives on display.  And no matter how vulgar and horrifying of a man Alfred Hamilton was, the idea that this was happening here was something less than desirable.  

“He brought it on himself,” Miranda tells her husband quietly.  He turns and looks at her.  The spell locking him in place momentarily broken.  

She can’t describe the look on his face.  Nor can she try to work out exactly how he’s feeling.  His jaw is clenched.  There’s a faint tremor running through his right arm.  But he doesn’t seem  _ scared.   _ He doesn’t seem  _ frightened,  _ nor upset. 

Miranda licks her lips.  Tries to work out what she’s feeling herself.  Her emotions have waged war valiantly over the past few months.  Arguing for which one should take precedence over the others.  There’s a quiet sense of relief though, that’s spreading through her.  Fingertips to toes.  She’s wanted to see Alfred Hamilton burn for so many years, and now that the chance is finally here before her, it feels...relieving.  

And yet, counterpoint to it all, she feels numb too.  As though she’s felt so many things too quickly that her mind has given up attempting to place a label on anything at all and has retreated behind a foggy cloud until she can manage to feel one thing at a time like a sensible human being. 

James reaches out and takes the phone out of Thomas’ hand.  He presses it to his own ear, listening to whoever is on the line.  A storm cloud crosses his features and he immediately rejects the call.  Pulls it back and hits the red button only to toss the phone onto the sofa.  He takes Thomas’ face in his and forces Thomas to look at him.  “You’re all right,” he tells Thomas firmly. 

“My father wasn’t at the house when the police went to pick him up for questioning,” Thomas says to the room at large.  “But I do believe he’s on his way here.” 

“Let the bastard come,” John says from behind them.  Miranda turns.  She hadn’t heard him or Madi approach.  But there they are, not a few feet away.  John’s in boxers and a light shirt.  His prosthetic gleaming in the dim morning light. The skin above his left knee is visible.  Burns eat their way along his leg, disappearing beneath his boxers. 

For her part, Madi looks on rather pensively.  Her arms wrapped in front of her body.  Her dark eyes are cast in shadow.  She isn’t smiling.  Says, “I’m getting dressed,” before turning and hurrying back up the stairs to the guest room.

“We all should,” James sighs.  He still has his hands on Thomas’ face. Still holding him steady.  He nudges at Miranda’s husband until he starts getting his feet moving.  Starts heading back up the stairs as well.  Miranda glances back at the TV.  The news anchors are covering the photo scandal again.  Playing their private pictures on repeat in comparison to the knowledge that Thomas’ father engaged in an endless stream of offences. 

Miranda runs up the stairs.  Tripping over the top step in her haste.  “We should go to the office,” she says the moment she enters her room.  A quick glance outside confirms her suspicions.  “No one is here yet, but it won’t take time.  We can go to the office, and stay there, away from the crowds and the mess.” 

James is busy pulling jeans and a loose shirt from the dresser, but he nods his head.  Agreeing for both him and Thomas.  Reaching for Thomas’ drawers he pulls something out for him as well.  “Go tell John and Madi, we’ll leave in twenty and get Rex’s on the way.”  It’s the only good thing they’re going to get today, Miranda can tell already.  But it’s a start. 

They’re rather proactive about the whole thing.  They make good time too. 

They’re in the car in less than ten. 

***

Madi arranges a press conference for Thomas at two.  She writes up a set of prepared words while Thomas looks toward the window and waits patiently for the world to start spinning in the correct direction.  It’s not even eight in the morning yet, but the four of them are settled in Conference Room B.  The news is playing on one of the screens set up on the far wall, Rex’s splayed out before them. 

The coffees have been drunk, the pastries mostly devoured, though there are some still remaining.  Thomas has found a bottle of scotch left over from the office party and is already on his second drink.  

Max, Idelle and Augustus all come into the office early when they realize Miranda’s there.  They discuss priorities for the day and insist they can handle all but the most pressing of issues.  Thankfully this system is already in place, though the reasons for it being there still make Miranda cringe. 

One day, she’d very much like it if there wasn’t a ready action emergency protocol for when Miranda’s life is interfering with her ability to do her job.  Human trafficking is far easier to focus on when her family isn’t being dragged through the news every five seconds. 

On the screen in all her pixelated glory, Eleanor Guthrie seems to take a perverse amount of pleasure in tearing apart the Hamilton family.  She eviscerates Alfred with the kind of poignant attack that Miranda despised from their own encounter with the woman.  Eleanor is nothing but ruthless when she wants to be.  

“Documents obtained from Lord Alfred Hamilton’s personal computer include a ledger of payments made to and from accused sources.  Including payments to the account of Edward Teach.  This account had been previously investigated by police during the Teach trial, however as it had been an offshore account no personally identifiable information was able to be used to track down the benefactor until now.” Eleanor speaks with a measured tone.  But there’s a glimmer of satisfaction on her face. 

As though she’s personally vindicated for attempting to destroy Thomas’ reputation because of this.  Miranda feels that sick sensation starting to coil within her once more.  Glee and Despair war within her.  Her nails bite into the meat of her palms.  

The camera draws back from Eleanor and she turns to speak to a group of panelists to discuss.  Their own expressions range from dumbfounded shock to harried exhaustion.  The drama isn’t a sex scandal anymore, it’s political and it’s depraved, and everyone clearly stayed up reading and mastering every detail they could so they could sit here today and utter their condemnations. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda watches Thomas finish off his drink.  James plucks the empty cup from Thomas’ hand and sets it on the table in front of them, then puts an arm around Thomas’ shoulders.  Keeping him pressed against his side and unwilling to let him up for a refill.  

John is gnawing on his fingernails as Madi continues tapping away furiously at her laptop to get the best statement possible crafted.  She’s muttering under her breath about how it would have been nice if Julius had at least  _ told  _ them he was going to release the information sooner rather than later.  Then again, Miranda doubts that Julius could sit on such a hot bit of news for long. 

Eleanor asks the panel a list of questions, and Utley licks his lips before he starts.  “Before we even begin,” he says clearly and without the slightest hint of interference from anyone at all.  “I think we can all just say, Thomas Hamilton should be cleared of all charges.” 

Everything stops.  

Madi’s fingers still on the keys.

John’s hand falls to his lap. 

Thomas’ head snaps to the TV properly. 

James twists so he’s staring, no,  _ gaping,  _ openly at the screen. 

In her chest, Miranda’s heart beats so hard her ribs ache.  

She wonders if she’s even breathing. 

“ _ Lord, _ ” Utley says the title like a curse, “Alfred Hamilton bankrolled Teach’s actions during the Northwood bombing.  He proffitted  _ directly  _ from the bombings themselves.  He received,” Utley flips through a set of papers in front of him quickly, “Eight-hundred and eighty-nine  _ million  _ pounds as a result of the bombing.  That’s in  _ excess  _ of the percentage he was already receiving from his initial investments into the war.  Thomas Hamilton not only defended Lieutenant Silver, he targeted the exact perpetrators and ensured the prosecution arrested the correct individuals.  The man doesn’t deserve a retrial, he deserves a  _ reward. _ ” 

Some of the panelists are nod even as Eleanor’s jaw sets.  “Yes, but you can hardly call Thomas Hamilton innocent based on that information, as it merely proves he didn’t also name his father as part of the conspiracy.” 

“Everything Thomas Hamilton has done has been in an attempt to undo the gains that Alfred Hamilton achieved with the bombing.  He was responsible for ensuring Teach and his crew were arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, he was a strong voice against the war, and voted against increased military spending and budgets.  There’s only so much one many can do and considering there were  _ two  _ barristers on the Silver trial, and from our previous reports it was Peter Ashe who assisted in Thomas Hamilton being brought under suspicion.”

Someone found an old photo of Peter and Thomas standing next to each other.  It fills the screen.  Their arms around each other’s backs.  Black robes settled in place.  Wigs under their arms.  They’ve just stepped out of a trial.  Smiling at whoever took the photo.  It looks like something Abigail might have placed on her facebook page.  Miranda can even imagine the summary.  _ Uncle Thomas and Dad!  _

The panel doesn’t even take a moment to consider Abigail’s opinions on the matter, though.  They steamroll over the photo and over Peter’s reputation, meager though it may be.  Peter’s payment schedule is brought up.  The property that he was pulling back from Alfred Hamilton.  The financial boon he received as a response to the favors he provided.  

There’s more information being discussed than just what Miranda provided to Julius.  She can’t help but wonder if he did the research himself or if the proper journalists were refusing to be outdone by an anonymous whistleblower. 

It feels strange.  

Watching the media one step removed.  

It’s a strange thing, watching Peter Ashe’s life crumble.  Seeing what it looks like for Alfred Hamilton to face questions that he should have faced a long time ago.  It’s like watching a movie.  The people on the screen aren’t people she knows, but characters that she observes like any other. 

Just another politician.  Just another criminal.  

James takes her hand.  

In their video games, they would blow up ships, attack lands.  Kill indiscriminately.  They would fight and wage war against the violence and the oppression and the consequences of their actions were immaterial because none of it mattered in the end. 

Watching Peter and Alfred suffer feels strangely like that.  It had been so easy.  Handing over the information and letting Julius just go.  Miranda squeezes James’ palm.  In her mind she sees over forty years of Thomas not getting what he deserves, and so she sits, and watches the movie. 

She watches their world burn. 

It’s not  _ right,  _ it’s not  _ good,  _ it’s not even  _ proper.  _

But for the moment, there’s a strong urge to relish in it.  So she does.   _ Fuck Alfred Hamilton and Peter Ashe.   _ They deserve this. 

Even if those that are around them do not. 

Max pokes her head in the door.  “Security called from downstairs,” she says quietly.  Then, glancing at Thomas before looking back at Miranda, says: “Peter Ashe is here.” 

“Peter’s here?” Thomas asks, blinking in shock.  Half the reason they fled to Open Borders was because they hadn’t wanted the conflict with Thomas’ father.  They hadn’t accounted for Peter though.  They should have.  They really should have. 

Miranda holds her breath, not sure what Thomas would want to do about it.  He doesn’t seem entirely pleased with the idea of getting involved himself.  But in the end he closes his eyes.  Takes a deep breath.  Nods his head. 

“Have him sign the guest log,” Miranda asks Max as politely as she can manage.  “Then send him up.”  John’s thumb is pressing hard against his lips.  His teeth bite savagely at a hangnail even as Thomas glances mournfully at the cup he’d emptied not moments before. 

He hadn’t cared in the least about filling a red solo with some year end scotch, and clearly doesn’t care about refilling it either.  But he doesn’t.  Just sinks his face into his palm and breathes as deeply as he can.  

Even as a breaking news update shows police escorting Alfred Hamilton into New Scotland Yard for interrogation.  Apparently he’d been trying to flee the country.  They found him at the airport trying to board a private plane.  Madi clicks the remote and puts the television on mute as Peter appears in the hall.  

Pushing open the glass door and stepping inside without even a knock.  Thomas’ hand falls from his face.  He doesn’t stand.  Just leans his elbow against the table.  Lets his hand dangle off the edge.  He looks exhausted and drawn out.  Miranda places her arm around his shoulder, and meets Peter’s eyes.  

“You have to understand,” Peter starts slowly, “I never meant to hurt anyone.” He closes the door behind him. Miranda can see Max loitering just outside.  Giving them space, but at the same time having security at the ready.  Miranda wonders if she’s already called the police.  Perhaps Detective Inspector Hornigold himself will appear to make the arrest. 

“What about me?” John asks sardonically.  He picks at the remains of a muffin from Rex’s.  “Did you mean to hurt me?”

Peter’s face twitches awkwardly.  His teeth scratch over his bottom lip.  He opens his mouth.  Closes it.  “I didn’t know you.” 

“You were willing to let me go to prison for the rest of my life, willing to let  _ him  _ get disbarred for money.”  John doesn’t say the words so much as spit them out.  Harsh and cruel.  Like a viper poised to strike.  He’s quick as a whip and at the same time, it feels like a waking revelation.  

A disgusted noise pulls up from Peter’s throat.  He shakes his head.  Steps forward. Places his hands on the table.  Meets Thomas’ eyes like that’s going to change things.  That somehow it will make any of this better.  Thomas looks right back.  He still hasn’t said a word.  Miranda squeezes her husband’s shoulders.  He doesn’t move. 

“I did what I had to do...to make sure my family was safe.  You— _ you  _ were safe.  Please, you’re my friend.  You’ve always  _ been  _ my friend.  You have to understand—” 

“—you conspired to blow up a military installation, blamed a Muslim man and an injured soldier, worked to conceal the perpetrators’ identities, and profited from it all because of  _ you  _ Peter,” Thomas cuts in.  “You didn’t do it because of me.  You didn’t do it because you needed to protect your daughter.  You weren’t threatened or coerced.  You did it for financial gain.” 

“I made a deal a long time ago—”

Thomas’ hand slams against the table.  He pushes himself to his feet.  He leans on both hands.  Snarling as if he were standing before a judge and pleading his case for all the world to see.  “I wanted to leave my father’s home and never return to it, you made a deal I neither asked for, nor wanted, and the result was financial instability that you felt was too burdensome to retain your soul for.” 

They might as well be statues, for all they mattered in this conversation.  As Peter’s nostrils flare and his temper goes with it, Miranda feels herself settling into the background.  The shadows.  Unobserved and unseen.  

“My  _ soul?  _ I made that bargain to keep you from dying in a ditch before you were twenty, and I have paid for it!”

“I should have  _ died  _ then.  Rather than let you  _ blow up Northwood  _ and blame the muslims for it.  How many people died because of what you did?  How many children lost their parents, parents their children?  Racism and hysteria grew to an intolerable degree and this  _ bloody  _ war kept going on and on for  _ no fucking reason.”  _

“What would you have done? In my shoes then?” 

The answer comes lightening fast.  “I would have told my father to go to hell.”  

So Peter laughs.  Laughs a hollow sound that fills the room with not even a hint of humor.  “Saint Thomas, with all the answers.  It’s easy for you.  You don’t have a real family.  You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

James and John start cursing immediately.  Hostilities flaring as an argument seems prepared to go into effect any moment.  “Just because I don’t have a child, doesn’t mean I don’t understand what family is,” Thomas says softly.  “And more than that,” he smiles.  Faint and somber.  “I know what is too much to ask for, even for family.   _ You  _ failed your daughter.  You should have said no.” 

Movement by the glass door catches Miranda’s eye.  It’s Hornigold, just on time.  And several of his men as well.  

“You signed the guest log when you entered this building,” Miranda cuts in.  Peter glances at her.  Lips pulling into a frown.  “It stated that everything you say and do on Open Borders property will be recorded and could be used in the court of law.”  Her one time friend blinks at her.  Blank.  Uncomprehending.  “The police are here, and they have questions for you.  Our conversation will be handed to them as evidence for whatever charges they deem necessary to levy.”  Taking a deep breath, Miranda places her hand on her husband’s arm.  He leans into her touch.  Straightens his spine so he stands elegantly at her side.  “If you truly want to do what’s right for your daughter, you won’t put her through hell.  You’ll make the right choices here on out, and tell the damn truth.  It’s time the right people were punished for this mess.  Leave  _ that  _ as your legacy, instead of the lies you’ve spread so far.”

Hornigold opens the door, and there’s nothing more for Peter to say.  He doesn’t fight as Hornigold explains he will be taken into custody.  Doesn’t argue.  He seems to have accepted that this would be the outcome from the beginning.  That coming here was only delaying the inevitable.  

“I wanted you to know,” he tells Thomas.  “I only did it for Abigail.  It was for her.  I just wanted her to have a future.” 

“Then give her one,” Thomas tells him.  “And I’ll forgive you.” 

It’s more than Miranda thinks she could have offered Peter Ashe. 

But it seems worth its weight in gold.  Something like relief crosses Peter’s face, and Miranda cannot help but wonder if, after all this time, he simply needed an excuse to let the burden go.  He never had it in him to be a cruel and hateful person.  

But still. 

She will never forgive him.  For any of this.  And there’s still so much more to do. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now finished being written, and daily updates will take place hence forth. Thank you all for following!

When the dust finally settles, Thomas is brought in quietly for an evaluation of his work ethic.  The Bar _quietly_ tells him that all is forgiven and that no misconduct had been found.  Miranda listens as Thomas summarizes it all, arms crossed over her chest and irritation flaring with each passing second.  They had the decency to apologize in whatever manner people like them are capable of apologizing.  They told him that the law needed to be followed to the letter and that a thorough analysis of all deeds was imperative to make sure that no errors or miscalculations were ever made.

“They’re full of shit,” Miranda tells her husband firmly.  He sighs and nods his head.  Says at least it’s over, and announces his plan to sleep until the end of the year.  It sounds like a good plan as far as she is concerned, so she and James go along with him.

Settling into bed and trying to settle enough to actually get some rest.  James is still wide awake, mind likely turning over everything that’s happened.  He sits up in bed, propped against the pillows while Miranda lays between his legs.  Head against his chest.  Thomas is curled up on her stomach. James’ long arms wrapping around them both and holding them steady.  

Thomas is asleep in moments.  But Miranda stays with her fingers running through his blonde hair and her mind spinning for quite some time afterwards.  

Peter had been...more than cooperative with the police.  He knew how to cut a deal, and he knew that the only way he was going to escape even marginally in tact was if he completely destroyed Alfred Hamilton and all that he stood for.  He told the police _everything._  Hornigold had even let Thomas know that there would be little chance that his father would _ever_ step foot on British soil as a free man again.

Names and records not on Alfred’s computer were immediately placed into evidence, and Peter sang like a bird whenever anyone asked him a question.  His only request was that nothing be done to disadvantage his daughter in any way.  To that extent, the police quietly urged the media to focus on Alfred’s crimes rather than Peter’s.  It was decent, Miranda supposed.

Abigail didn’t deserve this anymore than they had deserved their photos in the news.

“I still don’t understand who stole our photos,” Miranda murmurs quietly.  One of James hands shifts from where he had them rested on Thomas’ body.  It comes and strokes her arm gently.  Pacifying.  He doesn’t speak.  “Peter wouldn’t have done it.  It called too much attention to something he wanted hidden.”

“Shit happens,” James replies, just as quietly.  

It’s not good enough.  

Her mind won’t stop spinning or fixating on it.  The photos started this investigation to begin with, and the attempt to prove their innocence led to Alfred’s arrest.  Unbidden, she thinks back to Louise Hudson.  Crimes committed to ensure other crimes were punished.  The thought sinks like led in her stomach, and when her phone rings, she’s all too happy to answer it.

Thomas groans unhappily and slides off her as she tries to reach the buzzing object.  He rolls on his side and flops an arm over his head like a child.  Miranda can just make out James smiling fondly at him as she crawls to get her phone.  

“Hello?” she answers, batting her hair from her face.

There’s silence for a brief moment, before a quiet voice finally speaks into her ear.  “...Miranda?”

It’s Jo.  For a brief moment, Miranda’s breath freezes in her chest.  She rolls her lips and adjusts her position.  Prepares to stand.  She can feel James watching her silently at her back, but she can’t think on that right now.  “Jo?  Are you all right?”

There’s another pause.  Something sounds like a sniffle.  Checking the number on her screen, Miranda’s mouth pulls down into a tight frown.  It’s not the Ryan’s house phone.  Nor even a known mobile that Miranda’s familiar with.  “Can you come get me?”  Jo asks after another few seconds of silence.

“Yes.  Where are you?”  Behind her, James is sliding off the bed.  Adjusting the blankets to cover Thomas completely.  He’s leaning over and whispering something to their lover, who makes a vague hand motion.  He’ll be asleep in moments, but James is already starting to climb off the bed.

Miranda can hear Jo talking to someone.  Muffled and uncertain.  Then she comes back on the line and tells her the name and address of a diner that Miranda’s not familiar with it.  She repeats it back to Jo, though.  Confirming the location even as she looks toward James.  He’s pulling fresh clothes on and is moving in a way that brokers no argument.

Fair enough.  “My partner is going to drive me to get you, and I’m going to stay on the line while we’re on our way, okay?”  Pinching the phone to her shoulder she starts changing her clothes as well.  Moving as quickly as she possibly can.  

There are more voices, Jo relaying the information to whomever she’s with.  “I’m on the diner’s phone,” she mumbles.  “But Christa’s gonna let me use her mobile to call you back.” Waving her hand at James she makes a signal for his own phone.  He gets it without question and hands it to her.  

“No, don’t hang up.  Tell me Christa’s phone number and I’ll call it now.  When you answer the mobile you can hang up, but not before.” Jo relays the information to the girl she’s with and then a number is being given to her.  She taps it into James’ mobile and hits send.  She can hear the ringing on the other line, and soon enough she hears Jo’s voice echoing through both phones at her ear.  “Okay good, I have you on the line.  You can hang up the diner phone, but stay with me while I’m on my way to you, okay?”

“...Okay.”

Miranda casts one last look at Thomas, and then hurries to her bedroom door.  James following swiftly at her heels, keys already in hand.

* * *

 

The diner isn’t terribly far from the Ryan residence, but from their house it takes them nearly forty minutes to arrive.  The whole time, Miranda talks to Jo in a soothing voice.  Jo’s run out of things to say, and whatever led to her sitting at that diner at this moment is irrelevant right now.  Miranda doesn’t care _how_ she got there, she only cares that she stays there until Miranda can arrive.  

So she talks about other things.  She talks about things she knows Jo likes.  Movies and programs that Jo has mentioned watching in the past.  Even if Jo doesn’t have much to say, Miranda can hear her humming her responses and breathing quietly on the other end of the line.  

She gets the basic information first, of course.  Knows that Jo is sitting in the back of the diner in a red booth.  That Christa is a waitress who saw her there and asked if she was all right.  She’s the one that helped Jo call Miranda to begin with.  Miranda tells Jo to order herself some food, that Miranda will pay for it when she arrives.  That she’s hungry herself and it’ll be an excuse to get something to eat.

It doesn’t matter if it’s true, what matters is that she gets it.  Miranda listens as Jo orders, and she can hear Christa agreeing and hurrying off to do just that.  While she’s talking to Jo, she texts Max.  Tells her a brief summary of what’s going on, and asks her to send Anne over to the Ryan residence.  Someone should have noticed Jo was missing, and if they didn’t, Miranda wants to know why.

Max’s response is quick and concise, and promises to do exactly that.  It’s only after a few minutes of radio silence that Miranda receives another text, reading: _How did you know Anne was with me?_

It’s neither the time nor place to comment on that and so she sets it to the side.  She’ll have plenty of time to tease Max and Anne later.  Right now, Jo is her priority.  

By the time James pulls up in front of the diner, the young girl has gone mostly non-verbal.  Humming more than answering in full sentences.  A couple of “uh-huhs” here or there more than anything else.  Miranda unbuckles as she tells Jo they’re outside.  She doesn’t look back at James, just hurries into the diner and scans the area for her charge.

She sees her almost immediately.  Jo had left her booth and was running toward her.  Miranda bends her knees and catches Jo the second she collides into her.  Arms wrapping around her body and holding her close.  Despite having nothing much to say on the phone, now the girl is sobbing.  Repeating apologies over and over.  Clutching at Miranda’s coat as she presses her face to Miranda’s chest.  “Are you all right?” she asks once she’s able to get a word in edgewise.

“I’m sorry,” Jo repeats.  

“There is _nothing_ to be sorry for,” Miranda tells her firmly.  Settling back on her heels, she shifts so she’s holding the girl at arm’s length.  Forcing Jo to meet her eyes.  “I told you before, you can call my number anytime.  No matter what.  You did _exactly_ the right thing.  I’m proud of you.”  The bell on the diner door rings as James steps inside from the cold.  Jo watches him warily, lips pressing together.  “This is my partner, James, he drove me here.  Do you want him to wait outside?”

She’s expecting a ‘no’ regardless of what Jo actually wants.  Looking for the signs of stress.  But surprisingly, there aren’t any.  Jo glances back at Miranda and shakes her head almost immediately.  No hesitation or uncertainty.  “It’s okay,” Jo whispers.  

Casting a quick look toward the booth Jo had been sitting at, Miranda tilts her head at it.  “Why don’t we go finish you food?  We’ll get something to eat as well.  Okay?” Nodding, Jo leads them back.  One hand clutching at Miranda’s the whole way.  There are placemats on the table, collected and flipped over so the white side is face up.  Crayons are next to them, and it’s clear Jo’s been drawing.  Sketching faces and figures on every inch of paper available.

James follows at a respectable distance, waiting for them to slide into the booth seats before crouching down.  “Hello Miss. Ryan, by name is James McGraw, are you sure it’s okay if I sit with you?  I don’t mind waiting elsewhere.”  

“S’fine,” Jo confirms again, shuffling deeper into the booth and pulling her plate of spaghetti closer to the edge of the table.  A crayon rolls a little bit as she adjusts, and James glances at Miranda for confirmation, before nodding and sitting down as well.  

Years ago, Miranda had asked that James sit in on training courses so that he could serve as an unofficial employee for Open Borders should the need ever arise.  He’s still on the books somewhere as a volunteer.  And every year he keeps up on the refresher courses just because it’s important.  He’s only ever stepped into ‘the field’ with her a few times.  Usually in circumstances like this where she needed a ride.  It wasn’t safe for her to drive and talk on the phone at the same time, and he’s never begrudged her for these moments.

For someone as big as James, he has a remarkable capacity to make himself seem small.  The clothes he’s wearing hide his muscled arms and strong body.  They are loose and relaxed.  His soldier straight posture curls a little forward in a casual slouch that doesn’t seem overly dramatic or cautious.  Everything about him reads as non-threatening as physically possible.  

He’s not nearly as graceful as Thomas is.  There’s still a faint rigidity that goes through his body that Miranda doubts he’ll ever be able to get rid of.  But for _James..._ it’s more than anyone could ask for.  Not for the first time, Miranda can’t help but be reminded of how much she deeply, _deeply,_ she loves this man.

The waitress, Christa, approached their table, and Miranda double takes when she sees her.  She recognizes the woman.  One of the other girls that had been a part of the raid.  Max had been in charge of her, and from the reports that she’d had, Christa had been reacclimating back into society.  Except, her name wasn’t Christa.  It was Charlotte.  

“I told Jo where I was going after her family decided to leave the safe house,” Charlotte explains as she comes to stand by the table.  She tugs awkwardly at the sleeves of her work shirt.  Biting her lip as Miranda stares up at her.  She looks in relatively good health.  Pale and still underweight, but there’s a healthy glow to her skin and her hair is neatly brushed.  “I had...I had family in the area and I just wanted her to know if she needed anything...she could...she could stop by if she wanted.  It’d be okay.”

“Thank you,” Miranda tells her honestly.  

“You’re good people,” Charlotte tells her.  “You...you and yours, you all looked after us, and it was a good thing.  So I told her to call, ‘cause that’s what we’re supposed to do if we needed it.  And...I thought she needed it.”

Reaching out, Miranda lays her hand palm up on the table.  For Charlotte to take if she wanted, or not if she didn’t.   _“Thank you,”_ she repeats.  Charlotte doesn’t take her hand, but she does smile.  A desperate kind of smile that is so eager for the confirmation she’d done the right thing here.  

“I’ll get some coffees,” Charlotte tells them, clearing her throat.  “And some burgers, or something.  Do you want that?”

“That’s fine,” Miranda nods.  James agreeing politely.  Charlotte quickly departs, and Miranda turns back to Jo.  “What happened?”

Jo clearly knew that she was going to have to tell Miranda eventually.  Still, her face twists with resignation and she hunkers down.  Shoulder bunched up and drawing in on herself.  Miranda and James don’t say a thing, though.  They can wait her out.  Anne’s managing Jo’s parents, and so there’s no time pressure.  No need to worry.  Everything is taken care of.

They can wait as long as she needs.

Jo pokes at her pasta with her silver fork.  Nudges a meatball through the noodles.  “They’re fighting more,” she says eventually.  Whispering the words at her plate.  “S’my fault.”

Useless platitudes press against Miranda’s mouth.   _It’s not your fault.  It’s okay.  Don’t worry about it._ Those words don’t _mean_ anything.  They’re said because they’re meant to be reassuring, but reassurance doesn’t come from empty phrases whispered in red diner booths.  They come from reality.  There’s nothing that can make Jo feel like this isn’t her fault, and Miranda knows that as well as Jo does.  So she stays quiet.  She listens.  

Small lips twist this way and that as Jo tries to form her words.  She makes scrunched up faces at her plate.  Not eating a single bite, but still pushing at it.  Over and over.  “The bad man’s been on the telly a lot.”

_Albinus._

Miranda’s eyes slide toward the placemats.  Catching sight of a peach face shrouded by a thick black beard.  The lines of the beard are harsh and chaotic.  Furious scribbles of up-down scratching.  Miranda reaches for the placemat.  Slides it closer so she can look at it.  

“You too,” Jo mumbles.  

Miranda doesn’t remember seeing Albinus on the news recently.  She supposes it could have happened.  At a certain point it’s too much stress to watch the television.  After Peter’s arrest they’ve been trying to budget their interaction with the news channels of the world.  Madi even threatened to steal Miranda’s phone if she couldn’t keep herself from scrolling through the various news sites.  She’s glad she didn’t take her up on that offer.  She wouldn’t have been able to be here for Jo’s call if she had.

“I’m sorry that so much of my personal life has affected you Jo, it shouldn’t have happened.” That, at least, was the truth.  But Jo shrugs one shoulder up and doesn’t seem particularly offended or upset by the fact.  As James likes to say.   _Shit happens_ .  And Jo knows that better than most.  Even if the level of _shit_ she’s had to deal with far outweighs what any reasonable person should have to endure.

“I’m tired of seeing them fight.”  The conversation isn’t linear.  It doesn’t have to be.  

Spinning thoughts are just as much a part of life as organized ones.  And Miranda is more than capable of being patient.  “I know you are,” she tells Jo softly.  

Done pretending she’s going to eat anything, Jo drops the fork back onto her plate.  Crosses her arms over her chest.  “Just wanted to show I could do something on my own.”  There’s nothing to say to that.  “We were out of milk.  They got into a fight.  Just wanted to prove I could do it.”  Fat tears well up in Jo’s eyes.  She sniffs loudly, then presses her hands to her face.  Sobbing with great hitching breaths.  

The empty diner echos as she cries, and Miranda waits.  Calmly.  Without judgment.  “Do you want a hug?” she asks, and Jo flops against her body.  It takes some readjustment, but eventually Miranda gets her arms to properly wrap around the girl.  Holding her to her side and feeling Jo cling desperately to her.  

She can see how it all happened.  She has known for awhile now that Jo’s home life was less than desirable.  But short of kidnapping her and forcing her to stay in the safehouse, there’s nothing Miranda can do on that front.  

But in her mind’s eye, she can imagine it clearly.  Can see Jo sitting in her room listening to her parents argue about whose fault it was that Jo was taken in the first place.  Arguing about Albinus.  Layering more hatred and fury toward Miranda and her inability to stay off the damn television.  Can see Jo wanting things to go back to normal, and sneaking out to try to help them.  Only to get scared.  Overwhelmed.  Maybe she even got lost.  And somewhere between trying to get some milk and trying to find a way back home, she managed to get to the diner Charlotte worked at and was able to phone a friend.

There’s nothing Miranda can say to make this better.  Nothing she can do to take away the pain Jo is feeling.  Time is Jo’s only method of assistance, and time isn’t quick or in any way helpful in the short term.  Miranda closes her eyes and holds Jo close.  Letting her cry it out until she’s run out of tears to cry.

Charlotte comes by with their coffee and burgers, but no one’s particularly hungry.  The food remains untouched for several long minutes.  When Jo sits back, wiping at her face with her hands, Miranda forces herself to smile.  “Thank you for calling me,” she tells her.  

“Mom and dad said I shouldn’t.” Miranda blinks.  Her mouth going dry.  “They said you were too busy doing things.  That I shouldn’t call.”  She tries to think back to the last time she received a call from Jo or about her.  It’s been a while.  Far too long.  Guilt snaps through her like a live wire.  She needs to force her hands to not shake.  Force herself to not react in any way at all.  

“You can always call me,” Miranda tells Jo firmly.  “No matter what.”

“You got more important things than me to—”

“—No,” Miranda insists.  “I don’t.”

James clears his throat subtly, and both of them turn to him.  “Jo?  I know that you and your parents have probably heard a lot about Miranda on the news lately.  And I know _why_ your parents would say that, why you’d think that.  But you will always come first.”  He says it with such meaningful conviction that Miranda wonders if maybe she’s done something wrong in her personal life.  That her partner would say that he wouldn’t be first in an emergency with such determination.  

At her side, Jo shakes her head.  “ _I’m_ not as important as _your_ family.”

“I’ve been...I _was_ a soldier for more than half my life.  And there were times when I wanted nothing more than to be with my family and support them when they needed me to.  But when you’re a soldier you don’t have the luxury of that option.  You have a mission and a duty.  You make a vow to protect your country and to follow the orders of your superior officer, no matter how much you want to be somewhere else.”  James leans forward, keeping his voice calm and steady.  “It doesn’t matter what Miranda has going on in her personal life, it doesn’t matter what she’s got on her plate, _you will always be first._

“She made you a promise,” he continues, “She made you a promise that she would be there for you.  You are her mission and the one most important thing in her life right now.  And as her family?  As her loved ones?  We know and support that decision no matter what.  I came with her because I believe in what she does.  What she believes in.  I want her to succeed.  So you’re right Jo, she’s got things happening in her life.  But it’s her job, and her mission to do everything she can to help you.  You’re the boss, Jo.  She’s going to follow you and have faith in you no matter what happens.  Don’t you ever be afraid or ashamed or worried about her coming out here.  We understand.  We _want_ her to be here for you.  It’s going to be okay.”

Miranda doesn’t know if she would have phrased it that way. If she would have made Jo think she was nothing more than a job to her.  But Jo’s eyes well with tears again, and she nods at James.  She says “Okay,” and she wipes her tears as quickly as she can, mumbling words of gratitude from behind her sleeve.

“Do you want to go home?” Miranda asks her quietly.  Jo hesitates and looks back at her plate.  

“Can we wait a little?”

“Yeah.  We can wait however long you need.”  Nodding quietly, Jo picks up her fork.  Pokes at her spaghetti for a second, and then twists her fork around so she can wrap the noodles around the tines.  She starts to eat, and then James and Miranda join her.  

The food tastes dry in Miranda’s mouth, but it doesn't matter.  Her thoughts cannibalize themselves as she takes bite after bite.  She needs to talk to Jo’s parents.  It’s well past time for them all to be on the same page.

* * *

James pays for their food while Miranda and Jo freshen up in the bathroom.  Miranda has a brush in her purse and she gives it to Jo so she can straighten her hair.  Jo washes her face and blows her nose.  By the time they make it to her house she’ll look decent at least.  It’ll help her parents feel slightly more at ease.  Though there’s no escaping the fight Miranda knows is going to happen.

“Christa knows that man,” Jo says as she’s drying her hand with a brown paper towel.  Miranda flicks water from her own freshly washed fingers and frowns.  Watching Jo in the mirror.  

“What man?”

“The guy on the telly.  Said he was one of the people that came to the...to where they did things.” Jo won’t meet her eyes.  But she never did when she spoke about what happened after she’d been taken.  Turning, Miranda crouches down.  Puts herself at Jo’s level.  

“Which man on the telly?” she asks carefully.

“The Lord.  Alfred Hamilton.  Christa knows him.”

Miranda blinks.  Her mouth opens.  She closes it.  She rolls her lips and shakes her head every so lightly.  Eyes shutting just long enough to conjure a picture in her mind.  Charlotte drugged and dazed and at Alfred Hamilton’s mercy.  Miranda’s fingers twitch uncomfortably.  She has to force a calm breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.  “Are you sure?” she asks carefully.

When Jo nods, there’s nothing else to be done.  Miranda takes out her phone, texts Max and asks her to follow up with Charlotte regarding any interaction she may have had with Alfred Hamilton and associates, and stands up.  Her phone buzzes almost immediately.

 _????????_ flashes across the screen.

 _Please ask her._ Is all Miranda can bring herself to write back.

Placing a hand on Jo’s shoulder, she guides her young charge out of the bathroom.  James has finished paying and is talking to Charlotte in a calm friendly tone.  Charlotte is smiling awkwardly and nodding her head.  Arms crossed in front of her body.  Jo ducks under the bar so she can give Charlotte a hug, which is returned immediately.  “You’re taking her home?” Charlotte asks softly.

“Yes, I asked Max to swing by just to check up on you and go over some things, make sure everything’s all right,” Miranda informs politely.  Charlotte nods like she’d expected it.  

Her eyes flick toward a television playing in the corner.  It’s off, but Miranda can just guess what might have been playing all day.  “Is there anything I can do for _you_?” Miranda asks carefully.

“I’ll talk to Max when she comes,” Charlotte replies.  It’s a dismissal, and Miranda understands immediately.  Besides, certain things don’t need to be discussed in front of Jo.  Not now at least.  

“You can call anytime as well,” Miranda tells her, offering her another business card just in case.  Charlotte smiles and thanks her, putting it in her pocket even though Miranda doubts she’ll get a call.  If there is a connection to Alfred Hamilton, there’s only so much Miranda should be involved with in the first place.  Something Charlotte would know all too well.  

Kissing the top of Jo’s head, Charlotte motions for Jo to duck back under the bar counter.  “Get home safe,” she tells the girl, and receives a careful promise that she will.  James starts the car with the remote start, and Miranda holds Jo’s hand as they trek out into the cold.

The girl’s at least dressed for the weather.  She’d been smart enough to grab a coat, scarf, and gloves before she decided to make her trip to the store.  “Do you want to get some milk on the way back to your house?” James asks, and Jo shyly says yes.  

She buckles up in the back seat politely.  James makes sure the heat’s circulating through the vents well, and then pulls back onto the road.  Miranda struggles to push aside the last bit of information she’s just received.  Her hands fumbled with her phone for no reason.  She’s not typing or texting or calling.  Just rotating it over and over like a fidget that needs to be spun.

Ages ago she’d toyed with the idea of Alfred being involved in trafficking.  It had been an extension of her id.  A desire to see someone punished in the worst way she could imagine.  Because she already hated the man and wanted to have another excuse to hate him even more.  She hadn’t actually, truly, believed it could be true.

Nausea pulls at her throat as her fantasy from back then starts to reform in her mind.  Sex and sexual favors were never things that Alfred Hamilton shied away from, nor was he above using Thomas for such ends.  But the thought that...she presses a hand to her mouth.  Swallows back bile even as she’s extremely grateful that Jo is sitting behind her and cannot see how she’s struggling to maintain her composure.

 _She’s_ not that lucky in terms of James.  Miranda can feel his eyes on her every few seconds.  Feel how he keeps watching her and the road at the same time.  Trying to work out what’s wrong without actually putting it into words.  Miranda’s swept up in the very real notion that she can’t actually say anything to James in the first place.  The moment she tells him he’ll be furious in a way that he’s yet to show fury.

And Thomas...Thomas is already trying to manage the emotional fallout of everything that’s happened.   _Nothing happened,_ she reminds herself.  Even though she despairs at the thought of what happened with Thomas and his vaguely consensual sexual encounters as a teenager, the images in her mind are _fantasies._  Made up imaginations that are haunting her because she’s capable of feeling and imagining them as being just as awful as possible.

She forces herself to breathe as calmly as she physically can and shakes loose the images.  Alfred will be punished no matter what.  She can stop imagining it.  She can stop putting a picture to it all in her head.  

Nostrils flaring, she forces herself to breathe deep and keep calm.  To hold onto everything until she has a safe and contained place to completely blow up and lash out at the world for being such a wicked and vile place.

They buy Jo her milk.  They pull up in front of Jo’s house. Anne’s car is already parked out front.  They sit there and Miranda finds her center.  Turns and looks back at Jo.  “Are you ready to go inside?”  She asks calmly.

“They’re going to be mad at me,” she whispers.

“They’re not mad,” Miranda tells her.  “They’re scared.  They’re worried.  They might lash out, but they’re doing it because they don’t know how to direct it into a positive way to express their concern.  But you’ll have to face it no matter when you choose.  Now or later.”

They wait.  

Jo bites her bottom lip and nods a quick little jerk.  Fingers tugging at the door handle.  Turning the car off, James opens his door too, and Miranda follows suite.  They walk up to the door together, Jo slipping her hand back into Miranda’s.  She walks a little behind too, as though trying to hide from her parents’ wrath.

James takes up the rear.  Miranda wishes she had one of her Clonazapams with her.  There’s a bubble of anxiety welling within her that’s starting to make her head spin.  She feels like she’s about to have a panic attack.  Her breaths are struggling to even out, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep moving forwards.  

She raises a hand to knock on the door but doesn’t get a chance.  The door jerks open, and Miranda’s anxiety kicks up an extra notch.  Her fingers tighten around Jo’s hand naturally and she feels the girl try to duck behind her again.  

Jo’s mother, Mary, doesn’t let her daughter hide though.  She darts forward and wraps her arms around Jo, and then Jo releases Miranda’s hand to hug her mother tight.  She starts apologizing while Mary starts exclaiming how worried she was.  Jo’s father is there too.  Shuffling so he can manage to wrap his arms around his daughter as well.  

Miranda feels useless, suddenly.  Standing there, watching the family embrace.  She doesn’t have anything to say or add, and there’s a part of her that wants nothing more than to go back to James’ warm car and go home.  Try not to think about Max’ impending conversation with Charlotte and everything that’s going to happen after the fact.

Inside the house, Anne is standing by with a pinched expression.  Considering none of them have had any sleep tonight, Miranda thinks Anne’s looking rather well.  She jerks her head toward Miranda in a strange greeting.  And Miranda manages an awkward smile in return.  

Slowly the Ryans maneuver back inside.  They all shuffle across the threshold, James loitering like a vampire awaiting an invitation before Miranda beckons him in.  They stand off to one side as the door is shut and the Ryans bring Jo back up to her room.  They’re not yelling, they’re not shouting.  They’re just hugging and kissing their daughter and telling her how much they love her.

“Your doing?” Miranda asks once the trio are out of earshot.  

Anne shrugs.  “Wasn’t gonna do the kid any good havin’ them all shout at her.  Got all the shouting out before you all got here.  Figured it was best.”

It was.  Miranda’s grateful for it too, because with her nerves as frayed as they currently are, she’s not sure she could have handled another explosion.   _I wonder if this is how John felt after the bomb went off_ , she thinks rudley.  It’s entirely inappropriate, and she hates herself the moment she thinks it, but the thought lingers.  

She feels awful.

Half an hour later, Mary and Todd descend from Jo’s bedroom.  They look worn out and exhausted.  But Mary only gives the most momentary frown to James, before ignoring him altogether.  “Thank you,” she tells Miranda stiffly, “for bringing my daughter home.”

“Of course,” she replies.  “There are some things that we need to discuss.”  

Unlike Mary, Todd can’t _stop_ looking at James.  “You brought your _lover_ with you?” he asks.  He has the decency to keep his voice down.  Miranda wishes more than anything else that Jo’s not around to hear them.  So instead of rising to the challenge, she keeps her voice as low as she can too.

“James is officially a consultant with Open Borders.  When a need arises he assists my organization whenever possible.”  Todd doesn’t look entirely pleased with the news, but he doesn’t say anything more than that.  “Mr. Ryan, I’m not here to make your life more difficult.  I’m not here to frustrate your opinions on social norms or familial organization.  I’m here to help your daughter.  That’s _all_ I’m here for.  She told me tonight that you and your wife have been arguing, that my being on the television has sparked _loud_ discussions between you two.  I understand you’re not fond of me or my familial circumstances, but my _family_ is why your daughter was brought home tonight and why I’ve dedicated my life to helping people like her.”

“We understand,” Mary whispers quietly.  “It’s just—”

“—You’re prejudiced and you’re angry about what happened to your daughter, and it’s easy to attack me.” Mary flinches at Miranda’s words.  Todd’s hands clench at his sides, but he doesn’t do much more than that.  “I care about your daughter.  I want her to live a long, healthy, happy life.  I’m not the bad guy here.  But you damn well better believe that I will be responsible for seeing the bad guy punished, with or without your help.  And I will always be available for _her_ when you can’t let go of your contempt long enough to realize your arguing is only going to hurt her in the long run.   _So get over it._  And don't you _dare_ tell that girl she can't call me.  She deserves an open ear and an open mind no matter what you think.”

Mary nods awkwardly, but Todd grits his teeth.  “I’m just not sure if it’s appropriate for my daughter to be around someone who’s a sexual deviant after everything she’s been through.”

As though Miranda would ever hurt Jo.  As though Thomas or James would even consider it.  The words are so startling that Miranda’s still trying to process it.  Even as her mind is locked on an image of Thomas being abused, she’s struggling to even picture Thomas trying to hurt another person.  She half feels like her brain decided to put on the Blue Screen Of Death.  It does not compute.  Restart and try again.

“Fuck off,” Anne says suddenly.  Forcing Todd to stare at her with wide eyes.  “Miranda Hamilton has the most stable relationship out of every person I’ve ever met in my life.  After the shit the news has put her through she’s still standing here with a perfectly intact family which is more than I can say for you two.  She got in touch with my girlfriend to get me out of bed to come over here and counsel you because you idiots weren’t even aware your daughter had run away.”  Both Todd and Mary gape at Anne in stunned confusion.  Clearly trying to process what she was saying.  “And there were four other queer people on our staff I can name off the top of my head.  The gays and lesbians and bisexuals and whatevers of the world exist.  And we’re damn good at our jobs.  Your daughter wouldn’t _be_ here without the work that our teams did on breaking that cell.  So get your head out of your ass and accept the fact that LGBTQAI People are going to be here no matter what your prejudices are, and none of that has a _single thing_ to do with your own failing marriage.  Don’t blame your shit on someone else.  Deal with your own problems and learn to communicate.

“If she can manage _her_ fuck of a life at the moment, you can fucking well manage _yours._  So pull up your pants and act like a functioning member of society.  That’s _your_ daughter up there, and if she means anything to you at all you’ll fucking _deal with it.”_ James places his hand on Miranda’s shoulder.  Silent, but loving all the same.  Anne glances at her too.  “Why don’t you two head on home to your husband.  I got it from here.”

Miranda nods.  Bravely saying, “Have a good night Anne.  Mary.  Todd.”  She manages to walk out of the house with her head held high and her back straight.  She even gets into the car without so much as a hitched breath.  It’s only when James makes it about half a mile down the road does she burst into tears and sobs the entire way home.


	21. Chapter 21

John’s court hearing reconvenes on a rainy Thursday, and it feels more like going through the motions than anything else.  Even the prosecutor feels that way.  Everyone’s gathered to watch the spectacle, but the outcome by now is almost certainly assured.  Peter’s statement to the police that John had nothing to do with the bombings and that  _ he  _ had been the one trying to set them up had all but assured the conclusion of the trial. 

They meet for a formality only.  The judge needing to officially preside over the matter as the case is withdrawn.  John sits next to Jack, and a second settlement is starting to get discussed because now there’s no way to avoid the fact that there’s been a serious misjudgement along the way and none of it’s John’s fault. 

Miranda watches it all impassively.  Her head feels as though it’s full of cotton.  Her hands are wrapped tightly around her arms.  She hasn’t been able to talk to James or Thomas about Charlotte’s confession to Jo.  Nor what Max had uncovered.  Though Anne had cursed up a storm once she had been brought up to speed, and Hornigold had called to discuss the matter with Miranda privately. 

As the judge announces his affirmation that the trial will be well and truly put to rest, a cheer goes through the courtroom that Miranda can’t bring herself to be apart of.  She stares at the back of John’s head.  She watches as his shoulders slump forward in relief.  Watches as he turns in his seat and looks to his wife.  She wonders if he’ll call Laith out of hiding and let him know it’s all right for him to come home now. 

They have nothing more to fear.  

It’s over. 

Miranda loiters as reporters rush out to tell the news of the day, as Madi goes to her husband and hugs him.  She stays seated as people stand and take photos and slap themselves on their back.  John meets her eyes over Madi’s shoulder, and something settles in her mind that should have settled there a long time ago. 

James and Thomas hug John and call him brother.  They talk about a party.  “After all of this, we  _ needed  _ some good news,” Thomas says.  He’s been difficult to read since his father’s arrest.  Hard to pin down exactly.  Sometimes, Miranda feels like she knows  _ exactly  _ what he’s feeling.  As though the world as suddenly become too claustrophobic to bear.  

And then, just as suddenly, she’s left standing at an open abyss and has no idea what anyone could possibly be thinking or feeling at all.  Right now, Thomas is smiling.  His eyes look just as stressed as they have for the past few months, but she doesn’t doubt that he’s happy.  That he’s truly glad for this too to be over.  

Thomas has been cleared of suspicion, and now John is truly exonerated.  There’s no retrial, no penalty.  They can all go about their lives and pretend that this year never happened.  Except that it did.  And there’s no forgetting that. 

Miranda stands.  Her knees ache a touch.  Creaking like she’s too old to be bothering.  John is still looking at her, and he seems...unnerved.  She supposes it’s as good as she’s going to get.  “A party sounds lovely,” she tells her husband.  He looks to James who nods and sets about ordering some pizza and beer.  

“I’ve got some things to wrap up and then I’ll be over,” Jack tells them.  He’s got to go back to the robing room and take off his attire.  Prepare to step out into the real world looking like someone who lives in this century.  They say their farewells, knowing it won’t be for long. 

Madi cannot contain her excitement and her glee.  She’s holding John’s hand and is so terribly happy it’s hard to deny it.  She’s not the only family here for John either.  There are others from the Islamic Center.  Mama Nanny leading the group.  She wraps John up in her arms, and some of the kids are there too.  They chatter and cheer and ask if he’s going to be coming back to the center soon to play with them.  Thomas invites everyone back to the house, and Miranda nods along with that too.  

“I’m going to catch a ride back with Jack,” she tells James when he’s finished his call. 

He frowns at her proclamation.  Brows furrowed.  “You all right?” he asks carefully. 

“There’s something I want to ask him about,” she replies.  Then she smiles.  Closed lipped and awkward.  She stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.  Squeezing his hand as she passes him.  

It’s been a long time since she’s stood as a barrister in court, but she knows the way to the robing room.  She goes there and sits on a bench outside the rooms.  Waiting for Jack to come out.  She folds her hands together as she waits.  Bending down to rest her brow on the fold of her knuckles. 

_ “Because you’re right,”  _ Jo’s Witch had murmured to her, all those weeks ago.   _ “It is my fault.” _

_ “Yes,” _ Miranda agreed, then _.  “It is.”  _

The doors opened, and Jack steps out.  Wig box under his arm, briefcase and in one hand and backpack with his robes already on his back.  He comes to a stop when he sees Miranda sitting there, and for a moment they just look at each other. 

“Can I ride with you back to the house?” she asks him.  He hesitates.  Then, taking a deep breath, he nods.  Gestures for her to follow him. 

They say nothing as they leave the courthouse and start making their way to the car.  But when he places his things in the back and settles behind the wheel, he stops and waits.  She waits too.  “Ask,” he implores. 

“You said that John was a piece of work after you first met him.”  He waits for her to put it in the form of a question.  “Why?” 

Licking his lips and making a ticking sound with his teeth, he opens his car door and settles behind the driver’s seat.  She sits next to him, and waits.  “I can’t tell you what I spoke to him about,” Jack reminds her quietly.  He starts the car and gets them going down the road. 

“I’m not asking for details Jack.” She doesn’t even really want to know the details.  A part of her wants to convince herself that she’s paranoid.  That she’s thinking of things like this because she’s done nothing but look over her shoulder for the past few months and finally the fear has caught up with her. 

Hornigold’s warning has sunk its teeth in at long last.   _ It’s someone you know.  _

“Do you know who the  _ worst  _ clients to get are?” Jack asks her.  It’s a rhetorical question at best, and she treats it as such.  “The smart ones.  The  _ truly  _ smart ones.  Not the geniuses who think they’ll get away with murder when they’re caught covered in blood with a butcher knife in hand, no I mean the  _ truly  _ intellectually smart ones.  The ones who have it all figured out, and perhaps they do because they’re running circles around you and you put in eight years of schooling and pupiling so that you could get  _ here  _ and here just looks like a piece of shit compared to what they’ve concocted.” 

He flicks a directional on.  Turns the car as smooth as a blade on ice.  His fingers flex on the steering wheel.  “I read books.  I have a prolific vocabulary, and I’m good at my job, but five minutes in a room with John Silver when he wants to make you look stupid is all it bloody well takes.”

“You weren’t angry because he’s smart, Jack.”  As prideful as Jack may be, she knows him better than that.  He even huffs a laugh in awkward agreement.  He knows that it’s true too.  

Scowling at the road, he grits his teeth.  “He has a remarkable talent for seeing cause and effect.  Of following a trail of events and knowing where they’ll lead.  He did my interviews for me, before he even got arrested.  Spoke to every single person on Teach’s team so many times I had enough notes and paperwork to fill up  _ binders  _ on them and their conversations.  When I sat down across from him, ready to point out how flimsy his case was, he turned around and gave me everything I would need.  Then he proceeded to  _ tell  _ me that the case would be dismissed.  That Peter Ashe would admit to conspiracy and that I wouldn’t need to call a single witness.” 

Miranda takes a deep breath and tilts her head to look out the window.  She watches the damp streets of London as they pass beneath the car.  Watches the people walking on the street.  

“You can’t run a case on good faith, so I prepared it all anyway of course.  But I can’t tell you how incredibly frustrating it is to work so hard on something only to have your client know nothing will come of it from the outset.  I don’t know if it’s prophecy or what, but he’s  _ uncannily  _ good at getting the results he wants out of something.” 

“Who was on your witness list at the end?” 

“Charles Vane.”  That at least was fine for Jack to reveal. 

Miranda frowns at the name, though.  “Why him?  Out of all of them?” 

“Because he’s the only one John actually wanted to speak to.”  Jack mutters it with only a hint of condemnation.  “He visited each member of Teach’s crew to hide the fact he was talking specifically to Vane.  Spent hours with each man just to obscure any questions into  _ why Vane. _ ” 

“So,  _ why  _ Vane?” 

There had to be a reason.  Something that connected the dots all together.  “Because Vane knew Albinus, Miranda.”  Jack pulls the car to a stop.  They’re already back at the house and people are flocking up the steps to her home.  Neither get out of the car.  “He was a working boy before he joined the army.  Vane and John knew each other before the blast, used to run together on the street before they joined up.  When the bomb went off, and Vane knew that John was caught in it, he dragged John out of the fire so he wouldn’t die.  John went to the prison to visit Charles Vane to ask him about Albinus.” 

She can’t help but stare at Jack.  “Why was he looking into Albinus?” 

This time, Jack shakes his head.  Turns to look straight down the street.  Arms crossed over the steering wheel.  “You know,” he sighs.  “He knew you’d ask me about it too.  Said that when you came to me, I should tell you all of that.  Then tell you to go talk to him yourself.  And...that he was sorry.” 

Anger flares deep in Miranda’s heart.  Her nails bite at the skin on her palms.   _ Sorry,  _ she thinks savagely.   _ He’s sorry.  _  “Thank you for your help,” she grits out.  

Then she opens the door and slams it shut behind her.  Walking up the stairs into her home, and ignoring every single merry face she sees.  

It feels as though the whole of the Islamic Community Center is there.  Thomas and James are engaged in a active conversation with some of the members.  Laughing and looking far more at ease than they have in months.  But her eyes slide over them.  Searching the crowd for where John is sure to be surrounded. 

She’s right.  He’s got a throng of people around him.  One arm around Madi even as he nods and babbles to his adoring friends and family.  She walks closer.  Just enough so he can see her, and when their eyes meet he nods at her once, then quickly makes his excuses to the others.  Claims he needs to fetch something for Miranda. 

Then he heads up the stairs.  They enter the guest room he and Madi have been staying in, and shut the door behind them.  He keeps his back to her while she stands there.  Patient and waiting.  “Are you going to tell me that you never meant to hurt anyone?” she asks him when she’s waited long enough.  He twists on one foot.  

His smile is gone.  His face is devoid of anything at all.  He stares at her with an empty gaze, and she wonders if this is really want he wanted.  “I knew it would hurt you,” he tells her.  “I knew you would be in pain.” 

Her teeth grind down against each other.  Her palms sting in pain.  She breathes harshly through her nose.  Feels how her nostrils flare.  “Why were you looking into Albinus?” It’s not the only question she wants answers to, but it’s a start.  

“I wasn’t at first.”  John takes a few steps backwards.  Eases down so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.  Hands resting between his knees.  “I was looking into Peter.”

“You knew he tried to sabotage your case.”

“Yes.” 

Miranda licks her lips.  “You wanted him punished for it.” 

John doesn’t even blink.  “Yes.” 

She wonders if she can keep asking him questions like this until he admits that he has been responsible for everything from the start.  Perhaps he knew the bomb was going to go off.  Perhaps he started the bloody war in the first place.  Perhaps he’s the root of all conflict and tension and turmoil in the world and she can hate him for that too.  

“I couldn’t go after him directly,”  John tells her sotto voce.  “I tried researching everything I could think of, but I couldn’t find any way to bring evidence into a courtroom that wouldn’t get swept away.  It had to be out of his control, it had to be out of his realm of influence.  There were too many variables and I couldn’t construct a narrative that would prove his guilt.”

“You couldn’t hack into  _ his  _ computer and steal  _ his  _ records, then?” Miranda spits.  “Post those online instead of  _ my photos?”  _

John accepts her ire.  Lets it flow across his skin like water.  He shakes his head.  “I never had access to his computer, or his records.  I’m not a hacker, and Julius was less than accommodating when I asked for his assistance directly.  But...you let me use your laptop when I’m over sometimes.  It wasn’t hard to get your photos, and from there it was just a matter of setting the scene.” 

“A scene that required you to be arrested, thrown in jail, my husband nearly disbarred, and the destruction of  _ our lives?!”  _ She tries hard to keep her voice calm.  It doesn’t work.  It raises an octave with every other word.  She’s breathing hard by the time she’s finished.  Her chest heaving.  Her skin tingles.  She can practically feel her hair standing on end. 

“I needed the court to re-examine the trial and for the barristers to be called under suspicion.  I needed them to open the possibility of questioning the ethics and practices.  I knew that Thomas would be cleared, and when he was, it’d be too easy to find the flaws in Peter’s practice.  That his reactions...and yours...would force the truth into the spotlight so no one could deny it..”

She wishes he wouldn’t stay calm.  She wishes he wouldn’t sound so perfectly accepting.  Resigned as he was.  She wishes there was a spark of fire in his voice she could argue against as well.  But he must have known this was going to happen too.  Had even told Jack to start her off so that he could finish it.  He knows how this is going to end and she  _ hates  _ him for that as well. 

“Why did you ask Vane about Albinus?” 

“I saw your records into the raid when I was on your computer.”

“So not only did you take my personal photos you took confidential information about my work.”  She’s not sure which disgusts her more.  John doesn’t even look ashamed.  

“I wanted to do something so that you at least had one positive out of all of this.  You were struggling to get the final bit of information you needed.  I recognized some of the sites in the pictures.  I asked Charles about it.  We spoke about Albinus.  He told me about the women.  The men.  Told me who used to be bought and sold by them.  How they got funded.  Said that even lords used Albinus’ services.  So I asked which ones.  And then did some recon of my own.” 

Miranda can’t look at him anymore.  She snaps her gaze to the side.  Teeth still grinding down harder and harder.  She thinks they’ll snap if it continues, but she can’t stop.  She’s shaking with rage and the desire to hurt something.  “I know what happened to Thomas.  When I found out about the rest...Miranda I knew it would hurt you, but people like them don’t deserve to live in palaces, celebrating their iniquity while casting judgment on the rest of the world.” 

“So you ruined our lives?  To punish Peter?  Alfred?” 

“I didn’t ruin your lives Miranda.”  He says it with such certainty that she wants to slap him.  Wants to strike that dull look right off his face.  He doesn’t get the right to get that look.  To seem so overwhelmed by everything that he can’t feel.  She wants him to feel this.  She wants him to feel what it feels like to be torn apart. 

To feel how she’s felt for so damn long.   _ Fuck you,  _ she wants to scream.   _ Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! _

“The world knows that James is your lover, he deserves that.  You deserved it.  You all can go out and  _ be together _ .  No shame.  No fear.  You can be yoursel—”

“—I feel like I’m losing my fucking  _ mind, John!  _ My clients can barely look at me without thinking I’m a sex offender, my staff is working harder than they ever have before, James was practically forced to retire- _ Thomas lost his job!”  _

“I never wanted him to lose the election.” 

“I don’t  _ care  _ what you want!” It feels good.  To lash out.  To let the pain loose.  To finally have a target she can direct her fury towards.  Finally all the pain and anguish and despair has a guilty party and the relief is overwhelming.  “I don’t care what your reasons are, what your attempts at justification are.  I don’t care what you tell yourself so you can sleep well at night.  I don’t care.  You were our friend.” 

Finally, his face twitches.  She sees pain there.  She sees anguish.   _ Good.  _ “When the party is over, I want you to get out of my house.  I never want to see you again.”  Something breaks.  She can almost hear it shatter.  The alliance they had held for so long.  The connection they’d shared.  

But all she can think about is how John had been so supportive.  Helping with the calls.  Driving her where she needed to go.  Taking her out to eat and being there to serve as friend and ally every second this conflict had gone on.  She sees him sitting at her laptop watching the news and all the ways he agonized over the treatment they’d suffered. 

It hurt him to do it.  But he’d done it anyway.  “Peter Ashe and Alfred Hamilton will never be free again.  They’ll be in prison for the rest of their lives because of this.  I left anonymous tips so your team could capture Albinus and his men.  I—”

“—I don’t care.”  Maybe she would, if she had a moment to feel. 

But it’s too much.  

She’s past her breaking point and beyond.  “Did Madi know?” she asks at long last. 

“No.”

Miranda hates him just a bit more for that too.  Now it wasn’t just  _ them.   _ Madi had been put through hell for this too.  “Go spend the night with your friends downstairs.  Be  _ enchanting  _ with my husbands.  Then leave us alone.  That’s all I want from you, John Silver.”  She thinks he might cry.  But he doesn’t.  He blinks back the tears.  “Just go.” 

Slowly he stands up, and walks to the door.  Places his hand on the knob, hesitating only for a moment.  “I am truly sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.” 

“No, John, you’re not.”  Because he’d do it again if given the chance.  They both know it.  John angles his head down.  Bites his lip.  Then leaves. 

Miranda stands in the empty room, stares at the walls hatefully, and thinks:  _ God damn Louise Hudson,  _ while trying her best not to feel like a hypocrite.  

After all, she got everything she wanted, and it hurts to know that it came at such a cost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The build up for this chapter has been 100k in the making and I'm so glad to finally be able to post it. I hope you all enjoyed the main body of this work. Only the epilogue next!


	22. Epilogue

James doesn’t buy a sailboat. 

He makes one. 

He takes a course on it and everything.  He spends hours staring wood.  He talks about sanding techniques and how boats were made in Ye Olden days.  At dinner, he provides them with samples of his thoughts, and they coo and aww at his ideas while simultaneously have no idea what he’s going on about. 

He goes out of his way to buy a garage down by the wharf where he can properly build the thing, because Miranda had asked him how he was planning on getting it into the water.  He spent hours explaining the exact process and providing video sources so she can see how it’s done.  Miranda can freely admit that it’s unique as far as hobbies go.  Apparently James' father had been an avid woodworker prior to his death.  And  _apparently_ Admiral Hennessey had encouraged after James had joined up with the Navy, even providing the occasional bit of advice. 

“I didn’t realize the man had a creative bone in his body,” Miranda admits one evening, causing Thomas to snort into his tea.  Thomas attempts, badly, to hide his chuckle behind a cough but James catches him at it anyway.  Scowling and kicking at his foot mildly.  

Giving up his playacting, Thomas shakes his head.  “You have to admit, love, she’s right.  He doesn’t exactly _ooze_ artist.”  Thomas waves his hand about as though to exemplify his meaning. 

“Well he’s actually very good at it, thank you very much.” 

“I’m sure,” Miranda told him, patting his hand and laughing when his face twists into something absurdly affronted.  

Still, James is hardly perturbed.  He works on his boat and buys more books on craftsmanship, and Miranda visits him at the end of each weekday at his garage by the wharf.  Sometimes Thomas is already there, sitting on a set of pallets and watching James sand.  Sometimes it’s just her.  

James sets up a kitchenette in the garage.  Buys a sofa that looks like something that belongs in a drug den.  A description that inspires her partner to pick her up, despite her shrieking protestations, so he can lay over her.  Asking, “Is that so, Mrs. Hamilton?” before making sure it looks  _ exactly  _ like something that belonged in a drug den.  Stains and all.  Miranda flushes with embarrassment when Thomas sees it.  Even more so when he scowls and complains that he wanted to break in the sofa too. 

The days pass, and the weather improves.  The shape of James’ boat takes form, and Miranda can’t help but feel excited when she sees it each day.  Eager for whatever the next addition would be.  Looking forward to the final product. 

It becomes something of a habit for all of them.  Miranda wakes up, goes to work, settles back into her routine that she’d longed for, and when she’s done she heads to the wharf to be with James and his silly boat.  Thomas entertains himself by volunteering at various community centers during his day, but always meets at the wharf after.  Miranda doesn’t press him for information, knowing full well that he helps at John’s more often than not.

She doesn’t want to know about John.  Doesn’t want to think about him in the slightest.  Sometimes she’ll come into the garage and catch Thomas talking to James about something.  He’ll change topics almost as soon as she walks in.  Smiling bright and pleasant, but still a terribly awful liar regardless of his attempts. 

She doesn’t know why she expected Thomas and James to be apoplectic about John’s betrayal.  Perhaps she expected validation in the form of their ire.  But when the party had ended and John had left, neither had seemed particularly affronted.  Or rather, neither held onto their fury the way she wished they would. 

It’s terribly hard to be angry at someone when no one else is supporting that anger. 

James called John a little shit, and cursed for a few hours, but never brought it up again.  Thomas poured himself a stiff drink, finished it, and said it didn’t matter now.  She’d tried fighting with them about it.  Once.  Tried arguing with them, demanding that they have an actual reaction to this.  That the betrayal meant something. 

Neither seemed inclined to take her up on the fight.  Nor join her march on her personal crusade.  They just let her shout herself hoarse.  Let her rage about it when she needed to.  Let her curse John’s name and snap about him whenever he happened to be mentioned. 

It’s the little things that infuriate her more than they should.  Tokens and reminders of his existence in their lives.  Gifts given over the years.  Phrases and memories she recalled once with such fondness, now cast under a veil of shadows. 

Betrayal hurt because it ripped away the good and drenched it all in bad. 

And there had been so much good for so long that she hates how it makes her feel. 

But the world spun on without her permission.  The sun continued to rise, and she continued to go to work.  Only now she joins James and his boat, instead of going home and waiting for him to come back from his latest tour. 

Thomas meets them there one evening, dazed and only slightly alarmed.  He flops on their seedy couch and stares up at the ceiling of the garage.  Announcing to them like he were talking directly to God, “They want me to join the House of Lords.” 

_ “What?”  _ Miranda nearly throws her back out she twists to look at him so fast.  James even stops sanding long enough to look over his shoulder at him.  

“My father obviously is no longer part of their number, and his seat is now open.  As his son...the duty naturally falls to me.” 

Miranda doesn’t even know where to start with that.  James manages somewhat on her behalf, “You renounced your title when you joined the the House of Commons.” 

“Apparently they’d very much like it if I retook it and washed the stain of my father’s memory from their ranks with my  _ proper ideals and fine moral standard. _ ” He says it like he’s quoting someone, and Miranda very much would like to know where these individuals were when Thomas was getting his name raked through the mud. 

Her contempt is not limited to John alone.  There are so many who deserve her spite.

But she knows the look on Thomas’ face.  Knows his thoughts and passions as well as anyone else.  Retaking the title would mean his father’s lands would be his.  His mother, who may or may not even be aware that her husband has been imprisoned for life, was last seen drinking herself to an early grave in the drawing room of the Hamilton family home.  But aside from inheriting  _ her  _ along with the rest of it all, Thomas would be able to get the influence and attention he long since deserved.  

It’s a thought that she needs to chew on.  So she commits herself to thinking while James picks up his sanding once more.  Thomas stares at the ceiling of the garage in silence.  Just as stupefied as them.  “They know about James,” Thomas whispers after twenty minutes of contemplation.  “And they asked me anyway.” 

The sanding stops.  

The answer, then, is obvious.  “You have to take it,” Miranda tells her husband.  For all of the future queer politicians in the world.  “You have to take it.” 

Her husband huffs loudly.  “A bisexual poly peer in the House of Lords,” Thomas laughs.  

James snorts.  “You should put that on a T-shirt,” he says before resuming his sanding.  Thomas doesn’t stop laughing for some time, and Miranda can’t help but wonder if John knew this too. 

If he knew with Alfred’s arrest that Thomas’ loss in the House of Commons would place him in a position to rejoin the House of Lords.  If he  _ knew  _ what this would mean to them all.  To countless others who will come after.  Alfred would never have willingly given his House seat to Thomas.  But now...he had no choice.  Now, Thomas can change one of the most corrupt and backwards institutions from the inside, and they  _ asked _ him to do it. 

The conflict in Miranda’s head just grows worse.  She didn’t ask for this at all. 

* * *

Life goes on.

The news stops talking about the photos.  Alfred Hamilton is no longer a topic of daily conversation.  Miranda watches it all fade back into the recesses of the mass public’s mind, and can’t help but wonder if she’s missed something.  It’s not fair that the world can keep spinning forward when she’s not done trying to process.  

She sits with Jo during their sessions together.  They sketch, and they talk, and Jo tells her about her day.  How things have gotten better.  How some things need to change.  Miranda takes notes and she gives advice.  She discusses options and opportunities, and she gets very good at wearing a mask.  

Smile.  Pretend everything is okay. 

It works, for the most part.  She’s good at this.  Has had to be good at this in the past, and it’s like riding a bike.  It’s not hard to replicate the process once you know how it works.  So she convinces herself it works, until Jo reaches out and takes her hand and says, “You’re sad.”  Until Miranda is forced to respond to someone she swore she wouldn’t lie to. 

Her chest constricts.  Her throat feels like it closes up.  Refusing to give way to any words.  “Someone I know betrayed my trust.  It’s hard to let it go.”  

Jo nods sagely at the response.  Asks, “Why’d they do it?” 

Which is the exact problem with it all.  Because Peter nearly succeeding in throwing John and Laith in prison so that he and Alfred could profit off a war.  Because Alfred had beaten and abused Thomas all his life, had sold him to make a profit, and had engaged in sexual misconduct with countless trafficked persons for glee.  Because wartime settings multiply trafficking statistics, and refugees become more at risk as they flee their destroyed homes in hopes of finding a better place.  The chances they’re picked up by men like Albinus only veer into the ‘more than likely’ territory, and Alfred had been involved in both profiting off the war and ensuring its longevity, but also taking advantage of those who were truly victims in the first place. 

Because John had spent far too long in a prison cell, traumatized and alone, after losing his leg and he’d had nothing but pain and vengeance to push him forward.  

“The reason  _ why  _ someone does something wrong,” Miranda tells Jo quietly, “Does not absolve them from the act of  _ doing  _ something wrong.  He hurt me and my family.”  He gave them what they needed so that Jo Ryan would be rescued.  So that she wouldn’t be sent to God knows where and tortured.  He saved all those people.  Made sure they had what they needed to shut Albinus down.  Miranda swallows thickly.  Forcing herself to tell Jo, “That’s not right,” even as guilt claws away at her.

She wishes John had just made it simple.  Wishes he’d just been a vengeful man hellbent on Peter’s destruction.  But he hadn’t been.  He’d been their friend.  He’d supported them every step of the way.  He knew how hard it had been for them.  He grieved over their losses.  He was angry at their turmoil.  He obsessed over the news and how it impacted them, because it hurt. 

But worst of all, he’d enabled a scenario where they all made the exact same decision he had.  They stole records.  They posted them online.  They watched the world crumble and burn around Peter and Alfred.  Abigail Ashe’s life will forever be ruined by what they did, and they still made that choice.  They still decided to put the truth out there, because it was  _ true.   _

Miranda gives Jo a hug.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be okay.”  She wishes she had advice on forgiveness to give her.  Wishes she had a lessons she could make out of this, but she doesn’t.  She can’t give advice she doesn’t understand herself.  She still doesn’t know what she’d choose. 

Jo hugs her back.  “Being angry takes a lot of energy.  At least forgiveness means you can move on.” 

_ Well fuck,  _ Miranda thinks.   _ That’s what I deserve for putting it in her court.   _ “Yeah,” she says out loud.  “You’re right.”  Then, clearing her throat she lets Jo go.  “I’ll see you later okay?  Keep up the good work.”  

She’s given a bright smile and a friendly goodbye as she goes, and Miranda even gets a warm goodbye from Jo’s parents.  They’ve been trying to do better.  They even started attending therapy and working on group projects as a family in hopes of working through their trauma.  They were doing good.  Miranda hopes they can keep it up. 

Getting into her car, she finds herself staring dully out the windshield.  Closing her eyes, she tries as hard as she can to forget how heartbroken John had looked when she told him to leave and never come back.  

Words keep rotating around Miranda’s mind.   _ Street kid.  Orphan.  Didn’t have a home. _  John met Charles Vane running on the streets.  Vane knew Albinus and John knew how to get the information Miranda needed to put him away.  A sick feeling coursed through her and she grips the steering wheel as hard as she can.  Breathing out harshly. 

Trying to catch her breath. 

She puts her car in drive, and heads down the road. 

It’s a fifty minute drive to the Islamic Community Center.  She thinks of nothing else the whole way there. 

* * *

Laith Muldoon is pinning pictures to the wall when she steps inside.  He has an armful of paper and he seems to be adding new information to the bulletin board.  He stops when he sees her. Frowning at her ever so slightly before twisting to face her directly.  “Hello,” he greets politely.

“Hello,” she says in return. They stand still. Awkward and unmoving.  Neither quite knowing what to say to the other.  Laith clearly doesn’t want to make the first move, so Miranda forces herself to do so.  “Did you know what John was planning?” she asks.  

Laith’s lips twitch.  His gaze drops.  “I did.”  It makes sense, Miranda supposes. Laith would have to know when to disappear.  Would have to know where to go.  “I didn’t want to go back to jail.  No matter what the end result.” 

She can’t even blame him for that.  It’s logical. Frustratingly logical in a way that she despises.  She wants to hate John more, for letting Laith know but not them.  For giving him a warning but not them.  But Thomas never was arrested.  He never was at risk for being arrested.  It never got to that point. 

Her fingers flex at her sides.  “Is he here?” 

And Laith nods.  He gestures down the hall, and Miranda follows his lead.  Finds John in the kitchen, working on a batch meal for their next event.  The smell of spices and meat fill the air.  Heat from the stove top burns through the room.  There’s sweat on John’s face.  His long black hair held in place by a bandana tied firmly around his head.  

There are dark circles under his eyes.  He’s lost weight.  Miranda watches him for a long while.  Waiting until he looks up.  It takes ages.  John’s eyes stay fixated on his work.  His hands running through their tasks at a ruthlessly efficient speed.  He must know she’s there.  It’s human nature to glance at the door when it opens.  But he doesn’t stop working until he’s finished getting all his food where it needs to go.  Until he can rest his hands on the counter, and give her his undivided attention. 

“Hi,” she offers inelegantly. 

“Hi,” he replies just as awkward. 

They stand before each other, and Miranda wishes she didn’t feel a swell of concern for him.  She wishes she didn’t want to know if he was eating well, or if he was sick recently.  She wishes she could actually hate him.  

“You look…” polite conversation would tell her to say  _ well,  _ but that’s not the truth.  “Like shit,” she finishes slowly. 

He nods, but doesn’t seem to know what to say.  Just agrees and waits.  She feels like she’s the villain now.  Like she’s the one who’s caused this, when it was his fault.  “Thomas is in the House of Lords now,” she says.  Just for something  _ to  _ say.  Conversation shouldn’t be this hard.  But it is.  She hates that too.  

John shifts his feet.  Leans more on the counter in front of him.  “I know,” he murmurs softly.  

Of course he knew.  Thomas visits the Center.  Helps out.  He and John spend time together.  “And James...he just finished his boat.”  Blue eyes fall awkwardly to the ground.  He knows that too.  He doesn’t want to say it.  But he does.  “We’re going to go sailing soon.  Take it out for its maiden voyage.  There’s an argument over the name at the moment.” 

Thomas seemed particularly convinced it should be named after a writer, James’ wanted something more traditional or perhaps a song reference, and Miranda hadn’t heard a single thing yet that sounded decent.  Though she and Thomas both vetoed naming the boat after anything Navy oriented.  “What are the contenders?”  John questions.  He’s almost shy about it.  As though he’s if he’s allowed to ask.  

“Shelley, Wolfe, Lucy and Walrus.” John huffed a laugh at the last one, shaking his head and muttering  _ koo-koo-kachoo  _ under his breath.  “James likes the Beatles,” she reveals. 

“Yeah, I know.” John snatches a rag and starts rubbing the counter in front of him.  Cleaning up aimlessly.  “He used to play some on the ship sometimes and at the hospital right after.”

The conversation fails again.  “How’s Madi?” she tries.  The past few months had been strangely silent where her friend was concerned.  She hadn’t reached out to her, admittedly, but Madi hadn’t either.  It was almost as if they had an unspoken agreement that John was too much of a burden on their friendship and it was best to part.  Except Miranda never wanted anything to do with such an agreement.  It hurts knowing that she lost a friend in all this.  

Lost two friends.  

John’s mouth opens awkwardly.  Words stolen from him.  “Madi and I…” he starts, stumbling a touch.  “We’re not...we’re having some...trouble.” 

“I take it she didn’t appreciate your involvement in getting yourself arrested and upending her life to satisfy your plot for revenge?” It’s more savage than she intended, and John flinches.  She hadn’t  _ meant  _ to snap.  She hadn’t.  But she can’t take it back now.  

“Not...as such.” 

“Was it worth it?” It’s not the question she wanted to ask.  She doesn’t even know what compels her to speak the words out loud.  But they formed in her mouth before her brain could pull them back, and they float in the air between them.  Patiently waiting for John to tell his secrets to the world. 

Miranda expects hims to tell her  _ yes.   _ Expects a fiery glare.  A speech.  A relishing glee over the punishment his enemies had wrought.  

She doesn’t get it. 

John stares at her blankly.  The same shattered look from the guest bedroom all those months ago.  A touch haunted.  A lot wounded.  His lips part.  His head shakes.  Eyes fall down as he shrugs uselessly.  Barely managing to say “I don’t know” loud enough for her to hear. 

“How could you not know?” 

“I...I don’t know.” 

Miranda waits, but John doesn’t continue.  Doesn’t say anything more.  It burns her in a way she hadn’t expected.  “If you want to make things right, then you’ll have to work for it.” He looks up.  Meets her eyes.  “You fucked up, John.  You could have talked to any of us at any time.  We would have listened.  But you didn’t trust us enough to tell us anything until it was all said and done.  If you want forgiveness,  _ work  _ for it.  And prove you deserve it.” 

“You said you never wanted to see me again,” he reminds her carefully. 

Miranda scowls at him.  “I needed time to process what the hell you just dumped on my doorstep John.  Thank you for following my directives, but don’t question relief aid when it comes for you.  Just decide what you want to do.  Take it or leave it.  You’re not forgiven, but I’m giving you a chance to try.  It’s your choice what to do next.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say.  What to do.  He clearly wants to step toward her, but she’s not ready for that.  Not yet.  Maybe someday soon, but not yet.  She still needs to come to terms with everything on her own.  Thankfully, time remains a consistent factor that she can depend on.  “Don’t you  _ ever  _ steal anything from me again, no matter what it is.” 

“I promise,” John swears solemnly.  

Nodding, Miranda takes a deep breath.  “Okay...I’ll see you around.  We’ll let you know when the boat’s ready to launch.  You and Madi should come with us.”  He’s nodding, almost desperately.  

“Thank you—”

“—Don’t thank me yet, John.  You have to earn it.  You...you  _ have  _ to earn it.”  He nods again.

“I will.  I promise.” 

_ Okay then.   _ She says goodbye and makes her way back to her car.  Jo was right.  She does feel a bit lighter after all. 

* * *

Neither Thomas nor James seem particularly surprised when she tells them what happened.   But they both smile at her.  Kiss her cheeks and tell her they’re proud of her.  “You don’t have to forgive him if you don’t want to,” they remind her, as they lay at her side that night.  She’s glad for that at least.  But it’s hardly fair of her to pretend the opposite.

She  _ does  _ want to forgive him.  She wants the easy camaraderie she had with him.  She wants her friendship back.  She loved John Silver as a brother, and she  _ missed  _ him and Madi more than she missed anyone in her lifetime.  

That Madi hadn’t spoken to her since John’s betrayal only hurt worse.  She hadn’t known that they were struggling.  Though she can understand why Madi would have kept it to herself.  Embarrassment most likely, as it had been  _ her _ husband who had caused so much pain.  

“I want things to be normal between us,” she tells her lovers.  

“Normal is a setting on a dryer,” James reminds her dutifully, and she swats him on the arm.  Relishes in his chuckle against her throat.  He shifts against her and nuzzles her like a cat seeking attention.  

Healing takes a long time.  And all of them need that time to heal.  But they’ll manage.  One way or another.  They have each other, and the demons of their past can’t haunt them anymore today. 

“It’s not even a good setting,” Thomas says as well.

James snorts.  “What do you have against  _ normal  _ on a dryer, my love?”

“Well it’s not very clear is it?  I mean, what if you had a bulky sweater, but it was only one?  Light should be enough for that right?” Laughter bubbles up in Miranda’s heart.  James starts arguing about that, and Thomas bickers back.  

It feels natural to reach for her phone.  To switch to her camera, and hold it up.  Snapping a picture.  Their moment of turbulence forever immortalized in a photo that Miranda can look at whenever she needs to remember that even in the darkest times, there are those who will stand at her side.  And for the first time in her life, she takes pride in it. 

No more standing in the dark.  

James and Thomas share a look behind her back, and then pull her close.  They kiss her cheeks.  She smiles, and takes another picture. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following me on this journey, I am so incredibly grateful for all of the loving and wonderful comments I've received. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


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